by Royal, Emily
He struggled to his feet and reached up, but his leg gave way beneath him, and he fell back with a groan.
“Are you hurt?”
“My ankle. I think I’ve broken it,” he said. “I can’t climb up on my own. You’ll have to fetch someone to help.”
“That’ll take too long,” she replied. “I can’t leave you alone in this rain.”
“Then what do you propose? I can’t stay here forever.”
His gruff tone might have concealed the pain in his voice from most people, but not her. She swung her legs over the edge of the ditch and slipped down to land beside him.
“What the devil are you doing?” he asked.
“Helping you out.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“It’s no different to mounting a horse,” Frederica said. She cupped her hands, interlocking the fingers to form a makeshift step. “Here. Place your foot here, and I’ll give you a push.”
“I can’t do that…”
“Yes, you can,” she interrupted. “I won’t leave until you’re out, and I don’t intend to stay here forever, either.”
She bent over, lowering her hands until they were a foot from the ground. “On the count of three.”
“It wouldn’t be proper,” he said.
“Propriety be damned.”
“A lady shouldn’t curse.”
“And neither should a gentleman,” she said crisply. “Not even when he’s lying in pain in a ditch.”
His mouth twitched into a smile, then he placed his hand on her shoulder, and lifted his foot into her hands.
“On the count of three,” he said.
“One…two…three…”
She pushed her hands up as he launched himself into the air, then he scrambled over the top and disappeared. Moments later, his head appeared, followed by an outstretched hand.
“My turn to help you.”
Ignoring his proffered hand, she climbed up after him, digging her toes into the wall of the ditch to gain a purchase.
“I see you needed no help from me,” he said.
“A childhood spent climbing trees better equips one for the world than one frittered away in the schoolroom.”
He sat beside the edge of the ditch, pulled off his boot, and inspected his ankle.
“Let me,” she said. Ignoring his protests, she knelt beside him, and touched his foot, feeling the bones beneath the skin. He drew in a sharp breath as she pressed her fingers around the ankle bone.
She lifted her skirt and tugged at the hem of her petticoat.
“What the devil are you doing now?” he asked.
“I need something to bind your foot with.”
“Here…” he reached for his necktie, “…take this.” He unwound it and handed it to her.
As their fingers touched, a shiver rippled through her. Their eyes met, and his fingers curled round her hand. An unfathomable need pulsed within her, and she broke free. She lifted his foot and wound the cloth round his ankle.
“I don’t think it’s broken.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Of course not,” she said, ignoring the rough edge to his voice, “but I’ve sprained my ankle more times than I can remember. I believe I can tell the difference. It’s a little swollen, but the bones seem sound.”
A smile danced in his eyes. “I suppose a lifetime spent falling out of trees has equipped you to make such a diagnosis.”
“Are you making fun of me, sir?”
“Of course not,” he said. “But I rather wonder at your education, Miss Stanford.”
“Not all of us are fortunate enough to be admitted into Cambridge.”
“No, but a lady needs to be educated if she is to succeed in life.”
“The definition of an education is an activity one engages in to learn the skills necessary to survive adulthood,” she said. “Given that I am, by no means, a lady, my educational needs differ from those of Alice de Grecy, for example.”
“I’ll wager your chaperone would disagree with you.”
“Lady Axminster is concerned with nothing more than my footing in society. She seeks to enhance it, with a view to securing a suitable match for me.”
“Isn’t that what every chaperone wants for her charge?”
“And are the wishes of her charge to be discounted?”
“Don’t all women wish to secure themselves a husband?”
She blushed at his words and bit her lip to conquer the image in her mind—Hawthorne taking her hand, offering his heart, as she’d once heard him professing love to another, years ago.
“Some of us just wish to be happy,” she said.
“Is that not one and the same thing?”
“For a man, perhaps. In a wife, he wants a helpmate to run his home and produce an heir. If she fails to satisfy his other needs, he’s at liberty to seek them elsewhere, and society will applaud him for it.”
“Such as?”
“Company and conversation. Those he can find at his club, together with brandy and cigars. Affirmation of his power can be provided by his gun, to fell pheasant with, and his ability to dictate to his servants. As for love, he can find that in a mistress.”
“There’s no guarantee a mistress will love her protector, Miss Stanford.”
“No,” she said, “but with the freedom to choose as many mistresses as London can afford him, a man’s chances of finding love will always surpass those of his wife.”
“You have a rather bleak view of matrimony, Miss Stanford.”
“Quite the contrary, I assure you,” she said. “I’m merely championing the case for marrying for love. I’m optimistic enough to believe that the perfect partner exists in the world for each of us. But I question the chances of finding them, when most marriages are solely based on title and fortune. In my view, unrequited love is the worst pain a living soul can endure.”
“Then where do you suggest I find my perfect partner, Miss Stanford?”
He took her hand and squeezed it, and she closed her eyes against the rush of longing which coursed through her. She had already found her perfect partner. She now had to protect her heart.
She secured the makeshift bandage with a knot and stood. “We must return to the house and send for a doctor.”
He sighed and reached for his boot, wincing as he pulled it on.
The horse had remained by the tree during their exchange. Frederica smoothed down the front of her gown, grimacing at the mud smears, and approached the animal, her hand outstretched.
The animal’s ears flattened as it watched her approach.
“I wouldn’t go near him if I were you,” Hawthorne said. “I’d rather walk.”
“You can’t,” she replied, keeping her voice soft so as not to frighten the horse. “Not with a sprained ankle.”
“I’d rather let the animal go,” he said sharply. “I told him I’d have him shot if he threw me again.”
“And you think threats are an appropriate method of getting someone to listen?”
“Samson’s a horse, not a person,” he said, exasperation in his voice.
“And he deserves a chance,” she said. “Don’t you, boy?”
She moved closer to the horse, holding her hand out, palm upward.
“You’re a beautiful boy, aren’t you?” she asked. “I’m sorry I have nothing for you, but I’m sure I could find you something back at the house, if you came with me.”
The horse snorted and tossed its head.
“Did something frighten you, Samson?” she asked.
“A flock of birds,” Hawthorne said, “and not for the first time.”
Her stomach clenched, and she gritted her teeth to dispel the image, and took another step forward. “I don’t like birds, either, Samson,” she said. “Most of the time I know they won’t harm me, but when they get too close, it’s as if my body freezes and I can’t move.”
Samson stilled and lifted his head, as if to sniff her hand. One step closer and she’
d be able to touch him.
“You understand, don’t you?” she said softly. “It’s like a wall of water building up inside, until a word, an image, or a flap of wings causes it to burst, and you have to run. Or fight.”
She reached out and stroked the animal’s nose, smooth and velvety against her fingers.
“Perhaps we can help each other,” she said. “Would you let me help you?”
She reached out and took the reins, while continuing to stroke Samson’s forehead with her free hand, coaxing him to come to her. Hawthorne remained silent as the horse took a step forward.
“Brave boy!” she said. “There’s no shame in fear, Samson. True bravery lies in conquering that which makes us afraid. Those who profess to be brave, most likely have never had to face their fears. And they will be poorly equipped when the time comes.”
She took a step back, resisting the urge to pull on the reins. Samson needed to follow her of his own free will.
She cast a glance over her shoulder. Hawthorne watched her, his eyes dark. Then she resumed her focus on the horse.
“This man won’t hurt you,” she said. “He didn’t mean what he said. Perhaps he’s a little frightened of you? But we can help him, can’t we?”
The horse took a step toward her, then another. She moved back, and he followed her to where Hawthorne stood, waiting.
“What form of education taught you to do that?” he asked.
“None,” she replied. “I’m his advocate, so I merely needed to consider his view of the world. As a magistrate, you must have witnessed lawyers doing the same with the accused.”
“You see him as the accused?”
“His life is at stake.”
“Not anymore,” he said. “It seems as if I’ve benefitted from an education this morning, for you have taught me the error of my ways. Now, if I may prevail upon you to help me mount, I’ll take you back to the house, before we dissolve in this rain.”
*
The chimneys of de Grecy’s manor came into view, and the woman in Hawthorne’s arms grew silent. Her courage, which had come to the fore in the face of his predicament, seemed to diminish with each step closer to the house.
Or was it the closer they came to society? As a child, she’d seemed so carefree, skipping across the fields, thriving in the outdoors. But when confined in a room full of people, such as a ballroom in London, she became skittish, not unlike his horse.
Her body shook with tension. How had she described it? A wall threatening to break, after which she’d bolt.
He reined Samson to a halt.
“Do you wish to dismount, Miss Stanford?”
“I–I don’t know,” she said. “If anyone sees me…”
“I understand,” he replied. “I have no wish to ruin your reputation. I’ll take you to one of the back doors where you can slip inside, unseen. Nobody will challenge a young lady wandering inside the house on her own. Send for your maid as soon as you return to your chamber, and she can see to your gown.”
She shook her head, distress in her expression. “I don’t have a maid,” she said. “One of the chambermaids here has been tending to me.”
“You cannot be assured of her discretion.” He sighed. “My valet can deal with it and will swear anyone he encounters into silence.”
He steered Samson toward the back of the house, then helped her to dismount.
“You should put ice on your ankle,” she said.
“De Grecy’s icehouse will be empty this time of year.”
“Not quite,” she replied. “Alice told me we’re having sorbet tonight. She was rather proud of the fact, given that Lord Darlington’s ice ran out last month, and Viscount Hartford’s the month before.”
“Then I must see if Rawlings can procure me some, and relieve our Miss de Grecy of some of her pride.”
Miss Stanford frowned, but a hint of mirth showed in her eyes. “I must admonish you, sir. Alice is my friend.”
“Then I shall honor her, Miss Stanford, for her taste in friends.”
A voice called out in the distance, barking an order. Another replied.
“You must get inside before you’re seen,” Hawthorne said. “Go straight to your room. I’ll send Rawlings directly. Don’t open your door to anyone but him.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I am in your debt.”
“And I, yours.”
She looked up at him, and his senses were assaulted by her eyes, against which the drab, gray landscape faded into nothing. His body had hardened with need the moment he’d lifted her onto his lap in the saddle and felt her warm body against him. Now, as he yearned to drown in those eyes, his manhood surged against his breeches, and he shifted his position to ease the ache.
If only she weren’t so far beneath him! Once more, he cursed the ill fortune of his birth. He had no need to find his perfect match. She stood before him, glowing with compassion and a love of all things living. But she had spoken the truth about matrimony. Society expected the heir to an earldom to marry well. Perhaps if Adam had lived, Hawthorne, as the second son, would have been free to marry for love.
Chapter Six
An inhuman scream split the night air.
Hawthorne froze, and his companion clutched his arm.
“What’s that?”
“I suspect it’s an owl, Clara.”
Clara, Lady Swainson, relaxed her grip.
“You go on ahead,” he said, “in case the noise roused anyone. I’ll backtrack.”
“What if someone sees you?”
“I’ll tell them I’m an avid ornithologist.”
“Always the model of discretion, Hawthorne, darling.”
She blew him a kiss and scurried into the darkness. De Grecy’s house party gave him the ideal opportunity to service the needs of his body, and he was practiced enough in the art of seduction to predict the precise moment of her climax, silencing her shrieks of pleasure with his mouth as her body rippled around him. Widowhood certainly agreed with her. Twenty years after the demise of Lord Swainson, she’d never remarried, despite numerous offers.
Hawthorne’s own release tonight had not come. He’d shown an ungentlemanly penchant for fantasizing that he was buried inside an altogether different female body. When he’d opened his eyes, his body had winced in disappointment that the eyes looking back at him were brown, not green, that the hair he clutched in his fist was silver-blonde, not red.
He straightened his breeches as the thought of her made him harder than he’d been all night.
Why in God’s name had Stanford foisted that old goat on his daughter as chaperone? Deaf as a barn door and twice as wide, Lady Axminster was a poor companion for such an enigmatic young woman. With her connections to Lady Jersey, the woman might present Frederica’s best chances for acceptance in London society, but it would not make her happy. Miss Stanford needed freedom and love, neither of which would be found at Almack’s.
Alice de Grecy might be an unremarkable creature compared to Frederica, but at least their friendship drew Frederica away from the rest of the party. Only that afternoon, he’d stumbled across them in the drawing room, every conceivable square inch of floor covered in sketches of Miss De Grecy, ranging from simple outlines to more detailed studies of a single feature, an eye, her upturned nose, or that petulant little mouth.
Both artist and sitter had been too occupied to notice him. Frederica’s focus was on the sitter herself, tutting in frustration as her pencil swept across the page until a smile of satisfaction crossed her lips. Then she’d tossed the completed sketch aside and begun a new one.
Alice De Grecy had noticed him first.
“Viscount Radley! What do you think of these likenesses? Do they portray me in a good light?”
In the artless manner of a woman fishing for compliments, she turned her eyes on him, widening them in that maddening manner of unattached ladies schooled to appear alluring to the opposite sex.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Miss De Grecy,�
�� he’d said, “and these likenesses say a great deal about the subject.”
Miss De Grecy had failed to grasp his true meaning, but a smile had twitched on Frederica’s lips while she’d concentrated on her easel.
“Of course,” he’d continued, “it is what the likeness tells us about the artist which is of more interest to those with a true appreciation for art.”
Her hand had stilled, and she’d reached for her sketchbook, holding it to her chest in a protective gesture.
“Alice, I’ve finished the preliminary sketches. Perhaps I might begin the painting tomorrow?”
Before he could stop her, she’d slipped out of the room.
A second scream ripped through the memory and returned him to the present.
It wasn’t an owl.
He broke into a run, toward the source of the scream.
Doors opened as guest after guest was roused by the noise.
“Did you hear that?”
“What is it?”
“Return to your beds,” Hawthorne raised his voice and addressed the crowd. “I’m sure it’s just one of the maids taken ill.”
“Shouldn’t we fetch Lord de Grecy?”
“His lordship sleeps in the west wing. By the time he gets here, I’ll have dealt with the matter.”
Reassured by his authoritative tone, the guests slipped back into their rooms, like a wave receding.
The screams had died down to a whimper accompanied by a male voice, soothing, coaxing.
At the end of the corridor, a shaft of light stretched across the floor where someone had left a door ajar. In the flickering light of a candle, he could make out two shapes in the bedchamber. One knelt on the floor, rocking back and forth. A second crouched beside it.
“Hush, daughter.”
“I–I must get out.”
“Rica, it’s over, now. I’m here.”
She let out another wail. “Birds, they’re in here!”
Frederica…
Her nightgown had been torn down the front, exposing her body. But her father didn’t seem to notice her state of undress, which tightened Hawthorne’s body with want.
Dear God, had someone compromised her?
“Can’t breathe…” she gasped. “…Make them go away…”