by Royal, Emily
“Hawthorne…” she whispered.
“Little changeling…”
He grasped her skirt and pulled the material up to expose her thighs. His fingers caressed the smooth creamy skin, moving toward the source of her heat.
Each encounter between them had led to this—the pinnacle of ecstasy when he finally claimed the one woman who could fully satisfy his hunger.
He dipped his finger into her heat, and his body almost burst with release. A whimper vibrated in her throat, and she opened her legs wider.
She belonged to him, only him. His body surged with the anticipation of having her, and he unbuttoned his breeches. One thrust and he would own her completely.
Three sharp knocks sounded on the door, and she stiffened in his arms.
What the devil was he doing? Lust and passion had obliterated his reason. He was known for his ability to keep a cool head, yet he was about to be caught tossing up a woman’s skirts in broad daylight.
Not just any woman, his little changeling.
She jumped back, trembling, distress twisting her features.
“Miss Stanford?” A voice called from behind the door.
She wiped her forehead. “A moment!”
Hawthorne buttoned his breeches and smoothed down the front, his body tightening as his hand brushed over his groin.
“Dear God, Frederica,” he said. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
“Just go,” she said, agony lacing her voice. “Please.”
She swallowed and took a deep breath before composing herself.
“Come in, James. What is it?”
The door opened, and a footman entered, holding a silver salver with a card on it. She took the card and read it, and a smile crossed her lips.
“Thank you, James.”
“He’s in the morning room, miss.”
“I’ll be there directly.”
“Who is it, Miss Stanford?”
She addressed the footman. “James, Lord Stiles is just leaving. Be so kind as to escort him out.”
Hawthorne took her arm, and she stiffened. “Take care,” he said quietly. She didn’t answer, and he tightened his grip until she looked at him. “Please,” he whispered, “please, Frederica.” Her eyes widened at his familiar address, and he withdrew his hand.
She snatched her arm away. “James, show this gentleman out,” she said. “If he refuses, fetch Papa.”
Hawthorne raised his hands in surrender. “I can see myself out, Miss Stanford, but my warning is out of concern for your welfare.”
“Since when have you cared for my welfare?”
“I’ll leave you in peace,” he said. “But I urge you to be cautious. I wouldn’t want you hurt.”
She nodded, the frost in her eyes melting a little. Perhaps a part of her understood he’d never stopped caring for her.
Loving her.
He bowed and left the room, waving away the footman’s assistance. As he passed the morning room, he spotted the man inside, reclined in a chair, a brandy glass already in his hand. He looked up and raised the glass as if in a toast, then drained it, a smile of triumph on his lips.
Whatever Frederica believed, Roderick Markham had no intention of becoming her friend.
Chapter Seventeen
“Oh, I say, that’s Felicia Long with her mama. Her gown has been made from the finest silk, but, I’m afraid, not even the attentions of the best modiste in town can make up for such a disturbing countenance.”
The woman on Hawthorne’s arm turned her face to him, malice glittering in her eyes. “You only need observe the length of Lady Long’s nose to understand where her daughter acquired her somewhat extraordinary features.”
“She seems a pleasant sort of girl, Miss Wilcott,” Hawthorne said.
She let out a delicate laugh, the sort other ladies might describe as tinkling, designed to appeal to the opposite sex. Clearly, she sought to increase her appeal by undermining the worth of others in the eyes of the gentlemen she pursued, as if she would compare favorably either by virtue of their deficiencies or by her own demonstration of wit.
“My dear, Lord Stiles,” she said, “when gentlemen use such words to describe a young woman, that’s a sure indication that her tenure in the marriage mart is about to come to an end, and she’s destined for the shelf.” She curled her fingers around his forearm in a possessive grip. “Heaven help me if ever I find myself being described as ‘pleasant’ or ‘kind’.”
“On that count, at least, Miss Wilcott, you’re safe from me.”
Her lips curled in a smile of self-satisfaction, and indication that vanity, together with a lack of understanding, must be added to her list of attributes.
Dear Lord, was this what a man had to endure when he suffered the company of what society deemed to be an eligible young lady? By acquiescing to Lady Wilcott’s public insistence that he call upon her daughter, Hawthorne had found himself manipulated into the position of her suitor. What he’d intended to be a simple stroll in the park to preserve the lady’s pride had, instead, turned out to be the first step to courtship.
Perhaps a career in the army might have prepared him for such an onslaught. But no soldier could adequately prepare himself for such an assailant as an overbearing mama with an unmarried daughter in her fourth season.
He needed a wife, one of suitable birth, but why was it those desirable qualities seemed to go hand in hand with an absence of character? No wonder men of his station sought solace in the arms of courtesans. Had Adam lived, Hawthorne would have enjoyed more freedom in his choice of wife, like a spirited little changeling, a woman to warm the fire in his blood…
Miss Wilcott’s voice cut through the image of her and returned him to the present.
“Some men might find themselves tempted by a large fortune,” she said. “But, as Mama tells me, birth is everything.”
“How so?” he asked.
“Society must be kept pure. If ancient bloodlines are to be tainted by those of no consequence, whatever their fortune may be, the world will degenerate. And as for these new titles…” She wrinkled her nose, as if a nasty smell lingered in the air. “The nouveau riche are tainting the streets of London,” she said. “Why, only last week, Mama was forced into an introduction with the wife of a farmer! Fancied herself Mama’s equal just because her husband is a baronet.”
“There’s no shame in a viscountess making the acquaintance of a baronet’s wife, surely?”
“In my view, traders should remain belowstairs where they belong, rather than be given titles which give them ideas above their station. Any lady would agree with me, I assure you.”
“But a man might not,” Hawthorne said. “The civilized world is founded on commerce, Miss Wilcott, however invisible the participants may be among your acquaintance.”
She gave an unladylike snort. “Clearly you spend too much of your time in the country, Lord Stiles.” She cast him a furtive glance, a sly expression glittering in her eyes.
“Markham was speaking on the subject when he took tea with us yesterday. Now, there’s an ancient family. They date back to the thirteenth century.”
Hawthorne stiffened at the mention of that odious man’s name, and he stopped walking.
“Are you well?” she asked.
“Quite so, I thank you.”
Her smile broadened, and she gave a self-satisfied nod. She might lack wits, but her predatory observation of him could not have failed to notice his reaction.
“I trust you don’t view him as a rival.”
“I hardly think of him at all, Miss Wilcott.”
She let out another laugh, the delicate bell-like tones grating on his senses. “I could never attach my affections to a man with such a public reputation for debauchery. A gentleman may be permitted a mistress in his youth, of course, but when he’s courting, he must pay due respect to the wishes of the lady on his arm.”
“The wishes,” Hawthorne said, “or the demands?”
Her smile slip
ped for a moment before she laughed again.
“You do amuse me, Lord Stiles!” she said. “For all his attempts at conversation, Markham would struggle to rival you.” She squeezed his arm. “Oh, look!” She pointed in front of her. “There’s the subject of our conversation.”
Ahead sat the lone figure of a woman on a bench, sketchbook in hand. Her hand moved across the paper while she watched a swan gliding across the water. Seemingly absorbed in her activity, she did not notice Hawthorne and his companion.
“I can’t see Markham anywhere,” Hawthorne said. The woman on the bench stiffened, but did not look toward him.
Miss Wilcott lowered her voice to a whisper. “I meant his mistress,” she said. “Or, soon to be, from what Miss de Witt told me.”
“His mistress?”
“Lizzie overheard one of her chambermaids talking about her. Apparently Markham had one of his servants dismissed when she became enceinte. The foolish little tart expected him to set her up as his mistress. When he evicted her, she had the audacity to think she could find employment elsewhere. Lizzie sent them both packing, but not before they told her about Mad Miss Stanford.”
“Mad Miss Stanford?”
“The wine merchant’s daughter,” she said.
“Yes,” Hawthorne said. “I am acquainted with her.” Miss Wilcott continued, oblivious of the warning note in his voice. “She faints at parties and screams at birds, so Lizzie says. I cannot understand Markham’s interest in her, but his valet told the girl…”
“Nothing but belowstairs tattle,” Hawthorne interrupted, wanting to stem the flow of spite from her lips, “Miss de Witt should know better than to indulge in such gossip.”
Miss Wilcott shrugged. “Lizzie wants Markham for herself,” she said, “and she’ll crush any rival underfoot before she strikes root in his bedchamber, respectable, or…” she glanced at Frederica, “…too modern to ever be considered respectable.”
They drew nearer to the woman on the bench. Her hand stilled, and she looked up, her gaze meeting Hawthorne’s.
A jolt of desire coursed through him. “Miss Stanford, I trust you’re well,” he said.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Ahem.” Miss Wilcott gave a little cough.
“Permit me, Miss Stanford,” he said, “may I do you the honor of introducing Miss Wilcott.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Miss Wilcott said, her tone that of someone chewing on a lump of gristle. “Lord Stiles, we really must be going.”
Ignoring her, he gestured toward the sketchbook.
“You’ve captured the swan perfectly, Miss Stanford. How can you manage to do so, when it moves across the water rather than remains still?”
“The trick is in not wishing to pursue an accurate likeness,” she replied. “The essence of the subject can be captured in a few strokes without cluttering up the image with unnecessary detail, or being constrained by the rules of convention.”
“I fail to see the purpose in drawing an object if you’re not interested in producing a true likeness,” Miss Wilcott said. “How else can the artist demonstrate their skill other than by following rules and traditions?”
“A painting has to be more than aesthetically pleasing for it to have value,” Frederica said.
“That depends on your notion of value,” Miss Wilcott said. “Traditions must be upheld to prevent society from descending into savagery. You’ll find that ladies do not share your modern sensibilities, is that not right, Lord Stiles?”
“Quite so,” he said.
Frederica said nothing. She closed her sketchbook as if to protect her drawing from Miss Wilcott’s spite.
Miss Wilcott linked her arm through Hawthorne’s. “We really must be going, Stiles,” she said. “Mama will be expecting us for tea.”
“I have not been invited, Miss Wilcott,” he replied.
“Nevertheless, I believe she’s expecting you.”
Dear lord, was there no end to the woman’s attempts at manipulation? But this time, he would not be hounded into a corner.
“Forgive me, Miss Wilcott, I’ll escort you home, of course, but I have another appointment this afternoon.”
“Whatever for?”
“I’m sitting for a portrait.”
“Surely you can rearrange that? Mama was most insistent you attend.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” he said. “The light in the afternoon is just right when it shines through my drawing room window, and today is the only day for some time which suits both the artist and myself. Is that not so, Miss Stanford?”
Frederica looked up, and he lifted his eyebrows in a silent plea. Understanding and compassion crossed her expression and she nodded.
“Of course.”
He mouthed a silent thank you, and her mouth curved into a gentle smile.
“Oh, very well,” Miss Wilcott said. She gestured toward her maid, who had been following them at the obligatory five paces. “Come on, Mary, stop dawdling!”
“Sorry, miss,” the maid said. She approached the bench, dipped a curtsey to Frederica, who stood and curtseyed back, smiling.
“Well, really!” Miss Wilcott hissed.
Hawthorne bowed to Frederica. “My carriage will collect you at three, Miss Stanford. Don’t forget your paint box.”
She nodded and resumed her seat.
He may not be able to shield Frederica from Miss Wilcott’s spite, but, at the very least, he must save her from Roderick Markham.
By any means necessary.
Chapter Eighteen
The carriage drew to a halt, and a footman opened the door and helped her out. Clutching her paint box under her arm, Frederica followed him through the doors to Hawthorne’s townhouse.
“The master awaits you in the drawing room.”
“Very well.” She followed him upstairs.
Her heart hammered in her chest at the prospect of seeing him again. When he’d come across her in the park that morning, she had fought to maintain her composure. With a viscount’s daughter on his arm, he only served to widen the distinction of rank between them. Doubtless a woman such as Miss Wilcott was the type of creature deemed suitable for the position of a wife. With wealth, breeding, and a marked disdain for anyone lacking a title, she was the embodiment of the perfect lady.
Unlike Mad Miss Stanford, the bastard child of a duke.
Miss Wilcott was everything Frederica was not. To him, Frederica was nothing more than an object to aid him in subterfuge to avoid taking tea with the woman he courted. It seemed as if deception and disdain were prized among the aristocracy. There was no place in the ton for honesty or compassion.
The footman knocked on the drawing room door, and a deep voice answered. He opened it.
Hawthorne stood by the window, the evening sun illuminating his beautiful features, the intense, deep-set eyes, the straight nose, and strong mouth…
Her stomach flipped as he looked at her, and she caught her breath.
“That will be all, Harry,” he said to the footman.
“Will you be needing anything, sir?”
“No, thank you,” he replied. “We are not to be disturbed.”
As soon as the footman closed the door, Hawthorne crossed the floor and took her hand. She snatched it free.
“Are you sure I should not have been admitted via the tradesmen’s entrance,” she said, “given that my modern sensibilities have rendered me a savage? Miss Wilcott wouldn’t approve.”
He sighed and gestured to the sofa by the fireplace.
“Won’t you sit?”
She took a seat, and opened her paint box.
“There’s no need for that,” he said. “I didn’t ask you here to take my portrait.”
“Then why?”
He sat beside her. “Have you told Roderick Markham about your relationship?” He wrinkled his nose at the last word.
“It’s none of your business if I have,” she replied. “We move in different circles, Lord
Stiles. What I do has no impact on your life.”
He shook his head. “If only you knew…” he broke off and sighed. “If you’re being gossiped about, then that is my concern as a friend. I promised your father I’d take care of your wellbeing. Don’t you realize that if you continue to parade about London with Markham, unchaperoned I might add, it can only damage your reputation?”
“You think I care for my reputation?” she asked.
“You’re a fool if you don’t,” he replied, “but, at the very least, consider the impact your behavior might have on the people you love, and who love you. Think of them, if you cannot think of yourself.”
“Compassion should outrank proprietary.”
“Not in the world in which we live, Frederica,” he said. “I don’t just speak out of concern for those around you, but out of concern for you, too. Please believe me when I say that Markham’s designs on you are not honorable. He’s the sort of man who will always have a mistress in tow, and will be quite content to brag about it.”
“What about you?” she cried. “Or do you seek to persuade me that Lady Swainson is merely a friend?”
“This has nothing to do with Clara.”
Her stomach clenched at the familiarity with which he used her name, and she rose from her seat.
“If my services are not required, I shall see myself out.”
He took her hand and drew her to him. His eyes darkened and his nostrils flared; the anger which vibrated in his voice morphed into a flicker of desire.
“You need to listen to reason!”
“Why should you care?”
“Oh, Frederica,” he said. “I do care. If only you knew how much!”
He lifted his hand to her forehead, then traced a light outline of her face with his fingertip. A pulse of need rippled through her at his touch on her skin, and the breath caught in her throat. He drew close, and his warm breath caressed her lips. Burning desire glowered in his deep-set eyes, inviting her to surrender.