What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,49

lifted her gaze to him.

A ray of sunlight illuminated her eyes. Their rich amber color glowed with warmth and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, as if they were the only two people in existence.

The carriage drew to a halt, shattering the intimacy. He took her hand, and they climbed out.

“It’s about time,” a female voice said.

Ma stood by the carriage. “Fraser, I’ve been worried,” she said. “You’ve been out for hours up the mountain. Poor Miss Hart must be exhausted.”

“I’m quite all right, Mrs. MacGregor, I assure you,” she said. “I wanted to climb Beinn mo Chridhe.”

Fraser smiled at her pronunciation but made no attempt to correct her.

“That’ll be all,” he said to the coachman. “But make sure the carriage is ready tomorrow morning. We need to leave just after dawn to reach Edinburgh in time for the London coach.”

“Aye, sir.”

The carriage moved off, and Fraser led her inside. The sun dropped behind the mountain, and a shadow stretched across the ground. He shivered as the skin on the back of his neck tightened. But it was not just the cold. It was the expression in Lilah’s eyes. An expression he’d rarely seen in a woman, for too often it was tainted by greed. But he recognized its purity, for it mirrored his own. It was an expression that would only lead to heartbreak.

In her eyes, as she looked back at him, he saw love.

Chapter Eighteen

After arriving home in London, her poem was finally complete.

Lilah placed her pen down and picked up the paper and blew on it. The ink glistened in the light, then dissolved into the paper as it dried. She read the lines, her eye following the shapes of the words she’d penned without thinking.

He had been right. At last, she had something worth saying, something from the heart, driven by passion. She had begun to question her beliefs almost as soon as she’d arrived in Scotland. Though he was an aristocrat, a Molineux, he shouldn’t be defined by the blood which ran through his veins. Blood and ancestry meant nothing. What mattered was what he did—his beliefs, his love of the Highlands, and his care for the people who depended on him.

Even his admission of his feelings, though it hurt, was, at least, honest.

Lilah only had herself to blame for having fallen in love with him.

Yet her admission of that love had unlocked her heart, and the evidence lay stacked on the desk beside her. A love poem, written from her very soul.

Was that why poets led such melancholy lives? Did they need to experience heartbreak before they could express themselves? Or perhaps they needed to harden their hearts to survive. Lord Byron attracted scandal and left broken hearts wherever he went, but perhaps such notorious behavior had been necessary, to enable him to write such beautiful verse.

Was that what Lilah would have to become in order to survive?

A clock struck in the distance, three chimes. Tea would be waiting in the parlor. And Mr. Stock would be waiting for her in his offices in an hour—waiting for her final essay. Perhaps once she’d delivered the final piece, she might be able to look at him with a clear conscience.

She packed the poems into her pelisse, together with her essay, and slipped out of her chamber. She made her way down the staircase and past the longcase clock by the front parlor. The door was open.

“Why don’t you come in?” a male voice said.

Sir Thomas sat, reclined in an armchair, his legs crossed.

“That’s Dexter’s armchair,” she said.

He rose to his feet. “And I’m his guest.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“Your sister does. She’ll be here in a moment.”

“Then, shall I pour the tea?”

She picked up a cup, and it rattled against the saucer as her hand shook.

“Are you all right, Miss Hart?” he asked. “Delilah?”

She wanted to admonish him for his familiarity, but concern was etched across his brow—the concern of a friend, and one who, despite his rank, understood her passion for equality.

“Sir Thomas, I…”

He placed his hand over hers. “You seem unhappy,” he said, “and you have been ever since you returned from Scotland. Did you not enjoy your visit?”

“I did,” she said. “The land was beautiful. Fresh air and mountains.”

“Then why do you look so tired?” he asked. “If that’s what fresh air does for you, I’d advise you to remain here in London. Perhaps I should send for Doctor Lucas.”

She shook her head. “Doctor Lucas is a pompous fool.”

Sir