The Hidden Heart by Candace Camp

who came from a good family and had even had her season in London. Surely she must miss the life she had once had—doubtless that was one reason she had turned so sour!
    He grimaced, wondering why he had allowed her into his thoughts. Up until then, he had been in rather good spirits. When he awoke this morning, he had still felt disgruntled, and he had decided that a good, hard ride would be the only way to rid him of the pent-up anger he felt. So after breakfast, he went to the stables and rode out on his stallion, Poseidon.
    He had ridden hard and fast at first, which was exactly as the horse wanted it. The rides he took in London were far too tame for Poseidon, and he often thought, guiltily, that he should sell the animal to someone who would give him longer rides, but he loved the horse and could not bear to give him up. It felt good now to be on him again, to tear down the road or to take a fence. After a few minutes, a certain peace began to settle on Richard, and he slowed the horse to a more sedate pace.
    It had been the first time he had ridden over his lands in over four years, and he had begun to look around him with interest, noticing the changes in the farms, where new fences stood and walls had fallen, what houses were there that had not stood there before, where a stream had altered course. The weather was cold, but invigoratingly so, and even though the sky was winter gray with clouds, the land was beautiful and rolling beneath it. It was his home.
    He had run into Jem Farwell, one of his tenants, who had insisted on his coming into the house to see his family, then stay with them for lunch. It would have been rude to refuse, so he wound up staying and eating with them, and then chatting with neighbors who had seen him go by. He was warmed by their obvious delight in his return to Castle Cleybourne, and it was nice to sit by the fire in the neat little house and hear about the things that had happened in the past four years—births and deaths and marriages.
    By the time he was able to tear himself away, it was late afternoon, and he rode home in a pleasant mood, his former irritations vanished. He wished he had not thought of the governess, for it spoiled the mood. Worse, as if his thoughts had conjured her up, he thought he heard her voice somewhere down the hall.
    With a sigh, he set down his spoon and gestured for the soup to be taken away. One footman sprang to take the bowl, and the other followed deftly with the next course, a platter of fish, poached and elegantly dressed by the cook. Just as he laid the platter down on the table in front of Richard, the sound of the front door knocker clanged, muted by distance and walls.
    Richard frowned. Who the devil would come calling at this time of night? He remembered Miss Maitland’s late arrival the other night, and he sighed again, suspicion seizing him that this, too, was somehow her fault.
    He dished up a piece of fish, determined to ignore whatever was going on at the front door, but the sound of voices was impossible to avoid, even though he could not understand what was being said.
    Then, ringing out clearly, came the governess’s voice, saying in tones of shock, “Lord Vesey!”
    “The devil!” Richard exclaimed, jumping up and throwing his napkin down on the table. He strode out of the room and down to the Great Hall.
    Miss Maitland stood at the foot of the stairs, staring at the group gathered in front of the door. There, though Richard would scarcely have credited it, stood Lord and Lady Vesey, handing their cloaks to a hapless footman.
    “Bloody hell!” Richard exclaimed, with something less than hospitality, and he shot Jessica a look as though she were responsible for the couple’s presence. “What the devil are you doing here, Vesey?”
    Vesey, who was in the process of smoothing down his jacket, turned toward Richard with a thin smile. “Ah, there you are, Cleybourne. Thought this was your place. Got rather lost, you see. Knew you