A Heart Revealed Read online

  © 2015 Josi S. Kilpack.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kilpack, Josi S., author.

  A heart revealed / Josi S. Kilpack.

  pages cm

  Set in Regency England, Amber Marie Sterlington is the most sought after young woman in London, but when she begins to lose her hair (due to alopecia areata), Amber is exiled to the countryside where she meets Thomas Richards. Even as she is falling in love with him, she knows she must end things before he realizes what she’s been hiding from him.

  ISBN 978-1-60907-990-1 (paperbound)

  1. Baldness—Fiction. 2. Hair—Diseases—Fiction. 3. England—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. 4. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3561.I412H43 2015

  813'.54—dc232014033807

  Printed in the United States of America

  Edwards Brothers Malloy, Ann Arbor, MI

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover image credits:

  Cover photo: Joan Kocak/Trigger Image, pisaphotography/shutterstock.com

  Art direction: Richard Erickson

  Design: Heather G. Ward

  Other Books by Josi S. Kilpack

  Daisy

  Shannon’s Hope

  The Sadie Hoffmiller Culinary Mystery Series:

  Lemon Tart, English Trifle, Devil’s Food Cake, Key Lime Pie,

  Blackberry Crumble, Pumpkin Roll, Banana Split,

  Tres Leches Cupcakes, Baked Alaska, Rocky Road, Fortune Cookie,

  Wedding Cake, Sadie’s Little Black Recipe Book

  Other Proper Romance Novels

  Edenbrooke by Julianne Donaldson

  Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson

  Longing for Home by Sarah M. Eden

  Longing for Home, vol. 2: Hope Springs by Sarah M. Eden

  To Thomas Richards and Amelia Hey, my personal link to England. Thank you for the legacies.

  Table of Contents

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Book Two

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Author's note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  April

  Thomas knew the moment Amber Sterlington entered Almack’s ballroom. Not because he was watching the door, or because someone spoke her name. No. The reason Thomas Richards knew when Miss Sterlington entered the room was because every gentleman straightened his bearing and turned his head in her direction. Simultaneously, the women in the room either narrowed their eyes or raised their chin a fraction of an inch in the feminine version of the same response. Amber Sterlington was the Rage of the Season, after all, and in the space of a glance and a breath, the room was changed by her arrival.

  Thomas cared little for the attention society gave to her, but like everyone else, he reacted to her arrival by standing a bit taller in case she looked his way. The truth was that Amber Sterlington was quite simply the most attractive woman he had ever seen, and he was as struck by her arrival as every other man.

  In the month he’d been in London, this being his third Wednesday night ball at Almack’s, he’d seen Miss Sterlington nearly a dozen times at a variety of events, and his reaction to her had been equally profound each time. When his notice passed, he berated himself for it, wanting to believe himself a man apart from such fancy. She would marry for title or fortune or both—everyone knew it—and as a younger son of a modest Baron, Thomas offered neither, which made his attraction toward her that much more vexing.

  Her sultry laugh washed over him, serving as yet another defining quality that set her apart from the trilling young women of the ton. Everything about that woman was equal parts distracting and irritating to Thomas, who in every other case felt himself to be a logical, determined, and well-balanced sort of man.

  “As you were saying, Mr. Richards?”

  Thomas returned his attention to the young woman standing before him, holding a glass of lemonade in her delicate hands and looking at him with the wide-eyed expression of interest he expected had been taught to her by her mama, a woman who had made no secret of how eager she was to marry off her youngest daughter.

  He was not entirely opposed to Miss Carolyn Morton. She possessed the manners of genteel birth and did not seem the type who would drag her future husband to London because she loved the social atmosphere Thomas found so tedious. It was her level of intellect that worried him. Despite the dire warnings against having a bluestocking for a wife, Thomas wished to find a bride with whom he could converse on occasion. He had not realized it would be so difficult a prospect. While a great many of the season’s debutantes had been taught of literature and art—two areas of study he also enjoyed—none could give much critical opinion on either topic nor did they know the slightest bit regarding matters of economics or politics.

  But Miss Morton was an agreeable girl, and Thomas had been so distracted by Miss Sterlington’s entrance that he had broken off his reply regarding his thoughts on the current parliamentary session.

  “Yes,” Thomas said, remembering the conversation he’d let slip away. “As I was saying, I am hopeful that parliament will address the agriculture reforms Northern England is in such desperate need of. As mining gains greater investment, I fear for the future of the herds and fields that England is dependent upon. Should the mining industry continue to take such liberties with the land and subsequent water rights they are buying out at an alarming rate, I shouldn’t doubt that we’ll be importing beef from the continent. A repulsive solution, to my mind, when we have the resources to be self-sustaining if parliament will but protect the interests that are most certainly theirs as well as those of all England.”

  Miss Morton nodded, but he’d seen the blankness enter her expression and knew he had gone too far afield with information of no interest to his companion. In an attempt to repair the situation, Thomas bowed slightly and smiled at the girl most chivalrously. “Would you care to dance the next quadrille, Miss Morton?”

  The light he’d cast out of her face with his talk of
cows and corn immediately refreshed itself, and she nodded so quickly that the curls on either side of her face jiggled as though they too were excited to take the floor. Miss Morton smiled, revealing broad front teeth he would not mind so much if the girl were a bit more engaging to talk with. “I would most definitely like to dance a quadrille with you, Mr. Richards.”

  “Capital,” he said with a slight incline of his head. “I shall return for you when this set has finished.”

  She bobbled those curls again as Thomas made his way through the crowd toward one of the assembly rooms not so tightly occupied. He could only abide crowds for so long, and he needed a moment to himself before leading Miss Morton across the dance floor. Thomas caught sight of Miss Sterlington holding court with half a dozen suitors and felt his jaw tighten in another seemingly uncontrollable reaction.

  He had come to London because it was reasonable to expect that a man in search of a wife would find one amid the young women who came for the entertainment season that coincided with the parliamentary session. Yet after a month in London, Thomas had yet to meet any young woman who could hold his interest for the length of an evening. He thought of Miss Sterlington and shook his head at the irony that the only debutante who drew his attention was one he could never have.

  Thomas found a nearly empty corner where someone had, blessedly, opened one of the diamond-paned windows. He took the liberty of pushing it open a bit more to get some cooler air on his face; he would never go so far as to call London’s air fresh, but the outdoors was far better than the stuffiness of the ballroom. He looked toward a garden some distance away and felt a wave of melancholy as he took in the trees and walking path.

  He missed Yorkshire, where he’d lived all his life and where his father and oldest brother were buried. He missed the moors and the cattle and the sheep of North Riding. He missed fishing in the River Wiske that ran through his families’ estate lands, walking through mud in his wearing boots, and eating apples right off the tree when they were in season. He missed his mother and his brother and his niece, Lizabeth, who was adjusting to the birth of her baby brother, the next Lord Fielding. And so help him, Thomas missed the simple country dances where attendees did not feel the singular pressure of having to find a marriage amid the crowd.

  “Just one season,” his mother had begged two months ago, revealing a plan that had been some time in the making on her part. “I feel certain that once you commit yourself to your lands you shall never leave Yorkshire again.” He could not adequately relieve her fear on that count and therefore agreed to her wishes.

  “Tell me it is not The Honourable Thomas Richards.” Recognition of the nasally voice behind him was instantaneous, and Thomas was smiling before he turned around to see a dandy of a fellow looking at him through a quizzing glass tied to his waistcoat with a black ribbon. “Pray, I don’t believe it!” the fop said with a pretty stomp of his green, square-toed shoe. He put one hand on his hip, lowered his glass, and looked at Thomas with growing astonishment. “Thomas Richards at Almack’s? In London?” He shook his head and closed his eyes while taking a dramatic breath that flared his nostrils. “No, no, you must be an imposter. The Thomas Richards I knew, bless him, would never make such an appearance. No, it would go against all he stood for, I am sure.”

  Thomas laughed and put his hand out for his old schoolmate. Though they were different sorts of men, Thomas had counted Fenton as a great friend for many years. “I for one would be far more surprised if Viscount Fenton weren’t at Almack’s. In London,” Thomas countered in mimicked cadence. “The true question of the hour is why I have been in this city for nearly a month and I am just now seeing him.”

  The two men shook hands, and Thomas was reminded through the power of his grip that, should Fenton choose to, he could lay Thomas flat in a trice. He’d done exactly that more times than Thomas cared to remember when they were suitemates at Oxford and trying to prove who was the stronger man, as young men often did in any number of competitive games.

  “How are you, my friend?” Thomas asked, disposing of the jesting tone.

  “I am very well,” Fenton said, his voice low and even now that he was not putting on a show. “Have you truly been in London a month?”

  “Nearly so,” Thomas confirmed. “Darwood said you were in Brighton.”

  Fenton nodded. “That I was, but the company bored me and so I gave it up. And what luck that I did. It is splendid to see you again. How are you enjoying the city?”

  Thomas opened his mouth to reply only to have Fenton cut him off before he’d said a single word.

  “Ah, let me guess,” Fenton said, returning to his foppish allocution and putting a hand to his chest. “You are repulsed by the dinginess of it, bored with the frivolous entertainment, and only here because you desire what every man both wants and fears—a wife.”

  Thomas laughed again. “My answer was far less patronizing.”

  “And far less honest, no doubt.”

  Thomas did not argue. “If you must know, my mother sent me. She would like me to find a suitable wife and feels I shan’t find her in Yorkshire.”

  “Well, how many women are there in Yorkshire?” Fenton asked, raising his eyebrows to emphasize the question. “Other than your mother, of course, and your brother’s wife, which you need not consider, there can’t be more than two or three women in the entire county, let alone any of marriageable age. I can’t help but think your mother had the right of it.”

  Thomas did not attempt to hide his smile. “I suppose this is the point in our conversation where I try to convince you that Yorkshire is not the uninhabited wilds you perceive it to be.”

  “Perhaps, but then I shall refuse to believe it—as always—and you will end up with your nose in a joint over defending your homeland and I’ll feel wretched for taking things too far.” He waved his hand through the air. “Better not even to start.”

  Thomas laughed again and clapped his friend on the back, taking note of the striped satin coat of green and gold, which matched Fenton’s extravagant shoes, far different from Thomas’s conservative evening dress consisting of a black coat, gray waistcoat, and buff-colored knee breeches.

  “Oh, I am glad to see you, Fenton,” Thomas said sincerely. “London has improved by spades just by you being here. Darwood is somewhere in the crowd.”

  “Darwood is a singularly obnoxious fellow. I should prefer to avoid him as long as possible.” Fenton sighed and fluffed his lace cuffs with exaggerated attention.

  “I can only guess that your father continues to harangue you regarding your modishness?” Thomas asked, indicating Fenton’s extreme clothing.

  Fenton gave Thomas a conspiratorial grin and stepped closer so as to be heard while lowering his voice. “He despises it,” Fenton said with a gleam in his eye. “Almost as much as the women adore my sense of style.” He lifted his chin as though posing for a portrait.

  Thomas shook his head in mock disappointment and tsked loudly. “If I’d had any idea the high collars you sported at university would lead to this, I’d have burned them while you slept.”

  Fenton laughed, then did away with his foppish façade once again. “Now,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “tell me about your plans while you are in town—other than wife hunting. Do you need an introduction to any of the gaming hells? Have you joined any clubs? I’m a fan of Brooks myself. Great tables.”

  “I’m not such a gambler,” Thomas said, shaking his head. As the heir to a wealthy earldom, Fenton had a far different situation than Thomas did.

  Fenton raised an eyebrow. “London makes a gambler of many a man.”

  “Perhaps if they have a deeper purse than I do.” Thomas had no reason to be vague regarding his situation. “I am to be self-made, and the only thing standing in my way of it, is a proper wife.”

  Fenton turned his head slightly, regarding Thomas with a questioning look. “One with a fortune?”

  Thomas colored at the suggestion that he expecte
d his wife to make his living. “Certainly not,” he said. When Fenton pulled back, Thomas knew he’d spoken too sharply. He repaired his tone as he continued, “I have made an arrangement with my older brother: most of my annual inheritance for the fields near Romanby. In the long term I shall be far better for the investment and am still left with a modest inheritance.”

  Fenton’s eyebrows rose throughout Thomas’s recounting and his arms dropped to his sides. “You gave up your inheritance? I’ve never heard such a thing.”

  Thomas shrugged as though his decision was a common one when in fact he had come up with the idea himself. Most men would not give up the security of guaranteed income to make their own way. “I believe in time that the land will more than make up for the forgone income,” he said simply. After Charles—the eldest of the three brothers and their father’s heir—had died, Thomas had more fully realized how dependent they all were on lineage and inheritance. He also better understood that as generations—specifically his own posterity—became more distant from the security the title offered, he wanted something of substance to pass on. It was a unique perspective amid the noble class to be sure, but one that settled so comfortably in Thomas’s mind that he did not doubt the wisdom of it.

  The sound of a familiar and distracting voice prevented Fenton from making a reply, and they both looked toward the interruption. For the second time that evening, Thomas straightened in response to Amber Sterlington, who was walking arm in arm with her younger sister whom Thomas recognized from other events. For the second time that evening, he was taken off guard at the effect Miss Sterlington had on him. And for the second time that evening, he noted that he was not the only man so affected by her presence. Fenton struck a posture of distinction and bowed toward the women, looping his hand as he lowered it nearly to the ground.

  “Miss Sterlington,” Fenton said as he rose. He glanced at her companion and inclined his head. “Miss Darra. What a lovely happenstance to receive your company this evening.”

  Amber Sterlington fixed Fenton with a playful look that sparked instant jealousy in Thomas.