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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

LORD BYRON

Lord Hawthorn stooped to pick up my sketchbook just as another crack of thunder boomed. In my clumsiness I had dropped the book, and my secret art lay bare. He stared at the page, his brows slanting downward. I realized, too late, the cause of his silence—he held my sketch of him. My breath froze.

“Is this how you see me?” he demanded in a strangled tone.

I tried not to flinch, my gaze no longer able to bear his. “In the beginning. Maybe. You were rather grim.”

“I look irascible.”

I wasn’t sure if his voice held a touch of humor.

“I haven’t apologized for that unfortunate evening when Chaucer frightened you. Or was it me? Forgive my bad manners,” he said.

“You have had your moments, as have I, but...” In an effort to lighten the mood, I leaned forward, pretending to study him even though I had most of his features memorized.

“But when you smile, I believe your eyes lighten a shade. From mahogany to something almost amber. It’s really quite a pleasant shade. ”

He stared at me. And his eyes did not lighten. Instead, they darkened. I resettled back to my original position, not realizing just how close I tipped toward him.

“My lord, begging your pardon for intruding...”

Mr. Whittle stood in the hall, his gaze darting between the viscount and me. Flustered, I stepped back, self-conscious at how we must appear.

“Yes, Mr. Whittle, get on with it.” He sounded harsher than usual.

Mr. Whittle licked his lips. “It’s just that we’ve gotten word that Cobb has been digging holes throughout the fields near his cottage.

I daresay he thinks he’ll find something of value.

Who knows if he has found others to join him or not?

I thought you ought to know before more of the tenants take to his example and all the Hawthorn Abbey estates are pitted beyond repair. ”

A low curse. Lord Hawthorn snapped the sketchbook closed and handed it to me.

“Excuse me, Miss Littleton. Apparently my tenant thinks he is an antiquarian these days. Rest assured, I won’t let anyone touch your artifacts, nor muddle with my land,” he said as he brushed past to join Mr. Whittle.

I watched him stalk out of the hallway and into the courtyard, following the groundskeeper.

I hugged the sketchbook to my chest, regretting my impulsive words and actions once again. How utterly forward. Closing my eyes tightly, I gave myself a stern scolding that would rival any lecture given by Mrs. Herriot.

On the other hand, his offer to help Daniel brought a renewed warmth, rendering me like melted butter.

I found the Ming vase perched on a pedestal in the library and did my best to sketch the piece, but my mind wandered far away.

Instead of thinking of Rome and artifacts, or even the vase in front of me, I could only see the viscount who worked side by side with his men and who, without judgment, had offered a sliver of hope to reach my brother.

As I rendered the Ming vase, a gathering wind pushed against the abbey.

The heavens opened up and rain splashed against the windows.

Gentle at first, then a steady downpour, the roar echoing as it hit the slate roof.

Mrs. Whittle brought me refreshments in the library as I detailed the trim on the vase.

“La, such weather. You won’t be going anywhere for some time, Miss Littleton.”

I longed to escape to the parsonage after my earlier embarrassment with the portrait of Lord Hawthorn, but with lightning striking, I stayed to finish my illustration.

I didn’t dare set out with lightning stabbing at the ground.

I put down my pencils and approached the window overlooking the courtyard.

The wind howled and groaned like a wraith, battling the windows, and the trees whipped around the courtyard.

“I do hope we won’t see flooding,” I said, fearing for the viscount and his men caught within the storm.

She came up beside me and pulled back the velvet drape. A hard plink bounced off the window, as if a rock had been thrown against it. Then another plink. And another.

“No,” Mrs. Whittle moaned. “The orchards will be ruined.”

A man could only battle so much and not be destroyed.

Insects, drought, too much rain. But hail?

Nothing demolished a crop or orchard with as much ruthless efficiency.

I felt ill. The ice only grew in size until I saw one the size of a shilling ricochet off the stone wall of the courtyard, the impact sharp and echoing through the space.

A coat of white soon filled the expanse of the road and steamed against the beaten grass.

Mrs. Whittle wept. I put my arm about her, too heartsick to offer any encouragement.

“Poor man. He will lose his investments.” She wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. “What will he do?”

“I fear for anyone caught outside,” I whispered.

My alarm grew until at last a door slammed.

Both Mrs. Whittle and I hurried to the abbey entrance just as Lord Hawthorn stormed into the hall, his cheek bleeding.

Rain plastered his white shirt to his skin, outlining hard muscles.

He shook the water dripping from his hair.

My breath caught at the sight. He resembled a demigod rising from the sea, but the blood on his forehead proved him living—and in despair.

“My God,” he muttered. I sensed more prayer than curse with that hissed breath.

My mouth dried as I tried to find platitudes, comfort, anything at all to offer him in such a moment of need. He had offered me comfort earlier. What could I possibly say or do for him?

He stared outside until the eerie tinkle of breaking glass echoed over the hail. Outside, the storm raged. I suspected it raged inside him as well.

“The orchard will be ruined,” he finally rasped.

Before I could find words, the front door swung open again.

This time, a stranger entered, his fine beaver hat dripping rain onto the floor.

His coat was soaked, the collar turned up in a futile attempt to keep the downpour at bay.

He removed the hat, brushing it, though his expression showed no hint of discomfort—only determination.

“Mr. Talbot,” Lord Hawthorn rasped, his voice edged with either surprise or irritation. “What brings you here in this weather? I was not expecting you so soon.”

Mr. Talbot gave a slow shake of his head, glancing around the hall before locking eyes with Rafe. “I wish I could say this was a social call, but it’s not. I’ve come to assess the progress on the estate. Unfortunately the storm caught me just as I rode up the lane.”

Lord Hawthorn’s brows furrowed, tension rippling through his frame. He strode over to the man at the entrance of the hall while Mrs. Whittle and I remained standing just outside the drawing room.

Mr. Talbot’s gaze shifted to the windows, where the hail continued to pound against the panes.

He lowered his voice yet each word carried across the polished floors.

“I understand the timing isn’t ideal, but the Crown isn’t known for its patience.

I needed to see if the work you’ve undertaken is enough to convince them you can restore Hawthorn Abbey, but I fear this weather might change your prospects. ”

“I’ve started building the new road, expanded the orchard—this storm will set us back, but we’re making headway.” Lord Hawthorn also spoke softly. “Surely, you can report those changes.”

“Perhaps we should retire to the drawing room,” I whispered to Mrs. Whittle, who stood next to me. She shook her head, her eyes round with alarm. Instead, she gripped my arm with an unnatural strength, pinning me to her side.

Mr. Talbot stepped closer to the viscount. “I don’t doubt your effort, but effort alone doesn’t always sway the Crown. The estate’s condition... it has deteriorated faster than anyone expected, especially after today.”

Lord Hawthorn appeared made of stone. “What are you saying?”

Mr. Talbot sighed, clearly reluctant to continue.

His eyes flickered toward me and Mrs. Whittle, silent witnesses to Rafe’s impending embarrassment.

His gaze softened momentarily. “The Crown is impatient. They’ve given you time, more than they would’ve given most, but.

..” He paused, as if considering how much worse this moment must feel with ladies present.

“How can I return with a good report after today? The orchard’s loss, an incomplete service road, the funds running dry—you’re running out of options.

If you can’t show significant progress by the end of the month. ..”

Lord Hawthorn’s shoulders stiffened, his chest rising as if preparing for a blow. “Then what, Mr. Talbot? What happens if I fail?”

Mr. Talbot hesitated. “You know the answer.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Rafe’s breath coming in harsh, shallow bursts.

“I won’t let that happen,” he said quietly, but there was steel in his voice. “This estate is now my life. My family’s legacy.”

Mr. Talbot glanced at me again, perhaps aware of how deeply private this conversation should have been. Mrs. Whittle refused to relinquish her grip even when I attempted to pull free.

Rafe turned as if remembering he had an audience, his profile grim. “Please, wait in the drawing room, Mr. Talbot, and I shall join you. I need a moment.”

Mr. Talbot gave him a brief nod. His gaze lingered on me and Mrs. Whittle, who stood awkwardly beside me, before he stepped past us and into the drawing room, his wet boots leaving faint marks on the polished floor.

I stood frozen, watching the strain in Rafe’s posture as he fought to maintain his composure. His body shook, and for a moment I feared he might break under the weight of the news. Without thinking, I freed myself of Mrs. Whittle and reached him quickly, my hand finding his arm.

“Lord Hawthorn, you are bleeding.”

I pulled out my handkerchief and faced him. He halted when I dabbed at his forehead, wiping away the crimson trail. When I handed him my handkerchief, he snatched my hand as if it were a lifeline.

“Mrs. Whittle, perhaps you can make something bracing for our guests and the men when the storm ends. They are trapped in the brewery as we speak.” He paused, still gripping my fingers. “If the storm ends.”

Mrs. Whittle fled, her skirts swishing as she hurried to the kitchen.

“It will end,” I said. “All storms do.”

He glanced down at my hand, where he was crushing my fingers.

“I apologize that you had to witness such an exchange,” he said as he released me. His gaze strayed outside, the white of his eyes bright in the dark hall as he took the handkerchief and pressed it against his cheek where the hail had grazed.

“It will all be gone, I’m afraid. The old orchard and the new. Any crops planted, both for the tenants and myself.” His voice betrayed the barest tremor. “And now you’ve witnessed the fall of the house of Hawthorn.”

“What can I do to help you?” I asked, my heart breaking for all the loss I had witnessed. Breaking for him.

He looked at me again. “Pray, Miss Littleton. Pray.”

I nodded. “A friend could do nothing less.”

“How we need friends during such seasons.” A ragged sigh escaped him. He glanced down at his shirt and waistcoat still clinging to his form. As if aware of his dishabille, he mumbled an apology and left me within the hall.

From my position in the grand hall, I watched the clouds until they disappeared as swiftly as they had come.

I did not slip into the drawing room to hear the rest of the muttered conversation between Mr. Talbot and Lord Hawthorn, no matter how badly I wanted to stand by his side and offer companionship and support.

A man could endure only so much before life crushed him altogether.

My stomach churned at all I had witnessed, even as Mr. Whittle offered a ride home in their carriage.

I wanted to pray for Lord Hawthorn. I wanted to pray for Mr. Perry and the farmers. Even Daniel. Despite my former reserve about beseeching a silent God, I whispered pleas late into the evening from the safety of my bedroom at the parsonage where no one could hear me.