by Royal, Emily
But she would not be taken for a fool.
She jerked free, ignoring the sensation of loss.
“What about Clara?”
“I’ve not seen her since before Christmas,” he said. “She’s a clever enough woman to have long suspected I loved another, but I believe she only realized it during my house party.”
He caressed the back of her head and gently pulled her close until their mouths almost touched.
“As did I,” he whispered. “Only when I thought I was going to lose you forever, did I understand where my heart lay. I knew then, as I know now, that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, my love.”
“Hawthorne…”
He silenced her words with his lips, and her body dissolved into his embrace, surrendering to his declaration of love. Willingly, she opened to him. His tongue swept into her mouth, exploring, seeking ownership of her, and she joined him in a dance of courtship. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he fisted his hand in her hair and held her close.
A delicious warmth flared in her center, and she shifted her thighs to ease the ache building within her. He broke the kiss and held her face in his hands. Gold flecks pulsed in his brown eyes, drawing her in, as if his soul called to her.
“Frederica,” he breathed. “My love.”
He brushed his lips against her chin, and she tipped her head back, offering her throat to him. Hungry, open-mouthed kisses followed a path along her neck, then across her collarbone. Shivers rippled through her as he reached the top of her breasts. A low growl vibrated in his throat, and with one hand, he tugged at the front of her gown, exposing a breast. Her nipple tightened at the rush of cold air. A hot mouth claimed her breast, and she cried out as a shock rippled to her core.
“Let me love you, Frederica,” he said. “Let me take care of you. I want nothing more than to hold you in my arms.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Love me, Hawthorne. Love me as I love you.”
He grasped the hem of her gown and lifted it, and she lay back on the couch. Gentle fingers caressed her ankle, then moved higher, toward the source of her need, the secret place which pulsed whenever she dreamed of him.
He drew in a deep breath, his body shuddering, and his hand stopped. His eyes showed uncertainty, asking for consent.
“Are you certain, Frederica?”
She nodded and parted her thighs. He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring, then he opened them, their gazes locking.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
His body came down on top of her, a delicious weight, giving comfort and security.
“There may be discomfort your first time,” he said, “but also pleasure. I’ll be as gentle as I can. It pains me, the thought of hurting you, but it’s only the once.”
She lifted her hand and touched his cheek, brushing a lock of his hair aside.
“I trust you.”
He fumbled at his breeches, and she looked away.
“No.” His commanding tone held her captive. “Don’t take your eyes from me, Frederica. You’re safe as long as you stay with me.”
She nodded, and a tear beaded in her eye. He shifted his body, and something hard brushed against her. Her body stiffened, but she held his gaze, her need to submit to him overcoming her fear.
His fingers slid across her flesh, and she fisted her hands in his hair. At the point of no return, she arched her back, offering herself.
“Hawthorne, please!”
He thrust forward, and she let out a cry at the sharp sting. He stopped moving, holding her close, never taking his eyes off her.
“Forgive me, my love,” he whispered. “The worst is over, I promise. From now on, there’s only pleasure.”
She clung to him, reassured by his words and solid gaze. At length, the pain subsided as her body stretched to accommodate him. As she relaxed, he moved, withdrawing slowly, then plunged in again. She cried out, but this time, another sensation dwarfed the pain. Pleasure ignited deep within her, the promise of sweet release.
He moved again, and the pleasure glowed brighter with each thrust, until it exploded, and her body shattered.
A scream burst from her throat as pure pleasure tore through her. His movements grew more frenzied until they culminated in a final, powerful thrust. He cried her name, surged forward, and collapsed on top of her, his body trembling. His heart thudded against her chest, and he moved weakly against her as little aftershocks shuddered through her body.
Eventually he stilled, his heartbeat slowing to a languorous rhythm, his breath hot against her cheek.
“You’re mine, now,” he whispered.
She did not know how long they lay there, their bodies fused together, joined as one. When he sat back and buttoned his breeches, the light had faded. He smoothed his hair and smiled down at her.
“My goddess,” he said. “And I shall worship you forever. Here, let me help you.”
He took her hand and pulled her up, then reached out to her, tracing the neckline of her gown.
“I’ll have to buy you a new one,” he said.
Her gown was torn at the front, exposing a breast. He ran his fingertip across the flesh, and a thrill ran through her as he flicked her nipple.
“I’ll buy you a dozen,” he said. “And a necklace to go with them. In fact, I have the very thing. A string of sapphires set in clusters of diamonds. They’re the most extraordinary shade of blue, like a deep ocean. They shall be my gift to you. The first of many.”
“We…we must speak to Papa, first,” she said.
“Yes, of course.” He planted a kiss on her lips. “I’ll make the arrangements as swiftly as possible to prevent a scandal. I should have no trouble finding a house. I can speak to my lawyer tomorrow.”
“A house?” she said. “For us?”
“For you,” he replied. “Stockton can draw up the deed in your name.”
“But…” She shook her head. “I don’t want a house, Hawthorne.”
“Your father will expect me to set you up, Frederica. We must be sensible over the arrangements.”
Cold fingers of dread clutched at her insides, curling round her stomach.
“Arrangements?”
He took her hand, his touch possessive rather than tender. “Servants, a carriage. Nothing will be too much for you. I can find you a house lavish enough to provide all the comforts you should wish for, but discreet enough to ensure your privacy.”
She shook her head, as if she could dispel the truth, but it remained, his words etched into her mind.
He was offering to establish her as his mistress. The man she had worshipped for as long as she could remember, viewed her as nothing more than an object to satisfy the needs of his body, to be hidden away while he courted another.
“Of course,” he continued. “You’ll have your independence. The income from your father’s business will give you security.”
“Income?”
“Has your father not told you?” he asked. “I invested in his business. When the time comes, you shall inherit a regular stipend. Of course, I shall furnish you with everything you need, but an income of your own will lend you respectability.”
A rush of nausea flowed through her, and she leapt to her feet, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“My love?”
“Is this what this afternoon was about?” she asked. “You’ve bought the goods, so you wished to sample the wares? I thought you loved me, you said you loved me!”
Tears blurred her vision, and she wiped her eyes. “I thought…thought you wanted me.”
He blinked, his expression full of sorrow. “Oh, Frederica! Forgive me, my love, I thought you understood. I do want you, and I’m offering you as much as I am able to. My protection. In my position, my choices are limited. Someone of your rank enjoys considerably more freedom than someone of mine.”
His words could not have affirmed more clearly her inferiority. She reached for her shawl and
wrapped it around her dress.
“I’m giving you freedom, Frederica,” he said. “Is that not what you wanted? Forgive me, my love, I had no designs on seducing you. I asked you here to warn you again about Markham, to talk some sense into you. He’s always hated me, ever since we were children. Because of my affection for you, he sees you as a pawn to be used against me in whatever manner he sees fit. But he won’t touch you now. Can’t you see that? What’s happened is for the best.”
“Why do you think so badly of him?”
“Because he’s a debaucher of women!” Hawthorne said. “He’s been heard boasting of his intention to set you up as his mistress. I couldn’t allow that.”
“And yet, I find myself in that position now!” she cried. “You have no objection to my being a whore, just as long as it’s your whore, is that it?”
He flinched at her coarse expression “Frederica, I would never treat you like a whore.”
“You just did.”
She picked up her paint box and crossed the floor to the door. He rose to his feet and moved toward her, but she held up her hand.
“No,” she said. “Whatever you think of me, I am not some harlot to be used in a battle of male prowess. I’m worth more than that.”
“Take my carriage if you’re going home,” he said. “The streets are dangerous when it’s dark.”
“No more dangerous than a gentleman’s drawing room.”
“Then at least permit me to call on you tomorrow.”
“Please don’t,” she said. “You have a lady to court.”
Ignoring the regret in his eyes, she turned her back on him before the calling of her heart could stop her, and ran down the stairs, out of his house, and from his life.
Chapter Nineteen
“Your guest has arrived, miss. He’s waiting for you in the parlor. Would you like me to send for Mrs. Brown?”
“No thank you, Harry,” Frederica said.
The footman shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. “You need to be accompanied, miss. Your father’s not at home.”
Which was why she had sent for Roderick, but Frederica knew enough of proprietary not to tell Harry. Given what had happened the day before, she was already a fallen woman. But with luck, Roderick might be able to help her.
As she entered the parlor, relief flooded through her at the sight of her friend.
Not her friend, but her brother. And today she would tell him. She needed protection from Hawthorne Stiles and from her body’s inability to withstand the assaults on her senses each time he drew near. Shame coursed through her at the memory of the day before, when she’d opened her legs like a wanton.
Papa thought highly of Hawthorne. Only Markham could protect her. Papa might love her, but would he understand her moment of weakness? Would he forgive her?
“Lord Markham!” Despite her efforts, her voice came out high-pitched and strained.
His eyes narrowed. “Miss Stanford! I trust you’re well?”
“Quite well.”
“I know when my little bird is indisposed.” He took her hands and lowered his voice. “May I enquire as to the nature of your discomfort? I trust it bears no relation to our mutual friend, the esteemed earl?”
Her heart fluttered. Had Hawthorne been speaking about her? Was her fall from grace the subject of gossip already?
“Ah,” he said. “I’ve strayed too close to the truth. Stiles is a rake, Miss Stanford. All the worse, for he thinks his position as magistrate elevates him above us mere mortals. Is that why you invited me here with such urgency?”
“I must speak to you. In private.”
“We’re alone—unless your father is here?”
“No,” she said. “Papa’s not in. But I don’t want anyone to hear us, not even the servants. Would you care to take a turn about the garden?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Relief weakened her limbs, and she leaned against him.
“My little bird is trembling, but I’ll take care of you.”
Sunlight illuminated the corners of the garden. Summer was on its way, and soon the season would be in full swing.
Roderick steered her across the lawn. “Shall we find a secluded spot, Miss Stanford?”
She motioned toward the rear of the garden.
“Behind those bushes there’s a secret spot, not visible from the house. I go there if I wish to be alone.”
His smile broadened. “A secret spot?”
“Not even Papa invades my privacy there.”
“Then I consider myself privileged to be invited into your—secret garden,” he said, his tongue curling around the final words.
He squeezed her hand, and his body heat penetrated through her gloves. But unlike the searing inferno of need which had blazed through her at Hawthorne’s touch, she felt nothing other than companionship.
She slipped through the bushes, and he followed. His breath echoed in the still air, hoarse exhalations as if he were exerting himself.
“Mind the leaves,” she said. “They’re prickly.”
“Why doesn’t the gardener clip them?”
“I prefer it that way. It means I’m less likely to be disturbed here.”
“How clever you are!” he said. “You think of everything.”
The bushes opened into a small area, completely concealed from above and from all sides, with a wooden bench in the center. The sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled specks of light onto the ground.
A blackbird flew out of a nearby bush, and she leapt back with a cry as wings beat at her. Markham thrust his arm out and batted the bird away, and she closed her eyes and clung to him, focusing on her breathing to disperse childhood memories.
He pulled her to him. “My sweet, little bird.”
“What are you doing?”
“Hush,” he said. “There’s no need to explain why you lured me here.”
He kissed her fingers, one by one, then drew her index finger into his mouth and nipped it.
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”
“No, Lord Markham…”
“Roderick, my name’s Roderick.”
“No, Roderick.” She tried to snatch her hand away, but he took her wrist and held it firm and pulled her to him just as Hawthorne had done earlier. But this time panic, rather than need, ignited within her.
“Roderick, please!”
“Come, come, little bird,” he said, his eyes hardening. “Why else would a woman invite a man into her secret place, if not for seduction?”
“No,” she pleaded. “I didn’t bring you here for this.”
“That’s enough!” he said, his voice hard. “I can tolerate a little unwillingness in a woman, even I relish it at times, but there’s a time to stop teasing and that time is now.”
He gripped the material of her gown.
“No!” She pulled free from his hold. “You can’t! Roderick, you’re my brother!”
He jerked back.
“What on earth are you saying?”
“It’s true,” she said. “I read a letter from my grandfather. My mother was one of your father’s servants.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “So that’s why you came sniffing round my ancestral home! The pater told me of your little visit.”
“You believe me?”
“You weren’t the first, and I doubt you were the last,” he said. “The old dog always had a fancy for redheads, and what else are maidservants good for? The countryside must be littered with his bastards.”
He folded his arms and looked at her with hooded eyes. “So, not content with trying to extort a fortune out of a duke, you thought you’d seduce it out of his heir?”
“N-no,” she stuttered. “I only wanted your help. It’s Hawthorne. He…he…” she broke off, choking as her throat tightened with shame.
A lazy smile crept across his face.
“He fucked you?”
She winced at his crude words, and he l
et out another laugh.
“Did you offer yourself to him expecting marriage? Foolish little harlot! An earl would consider it a degradation to cleave himself to a common little country wench with a reputation for insanity! I suppose he rejected you after he’d sampled the goods. Does your father know?”
She shook her head, ashamed at her naiveté. Hawthorne had been right. Markham was not her friend.
“I’m still disposed to help you,” Markham said. “Let it not be known that I’m uncharitable.”
The cold expression in his eyes belied his words, and she took a step back. But he took her wrist and pulled her to him.
“I’m a generous patron, little bird,” he said. “I’m willing to ignore the degradation of suffering Stiles’s leavings, if you please me well.”
Bile rose in her throat at his suggestion.
“You can’t,” she said. “Didn’t you hear what I told you? You’re my brother!”
“I only have your word for that, my dear,” he said. “Who knows how many farm hands or stable boys your whore-of-a-mother spread her legs for? If Stiles has had you, why can I not take my share as well? Perhaps we could compare notes.”
She struggled to break free, but his grip tightened, and she gasped in pain.
“The thrill is almost always to be found in the chase and in making the final kill.”
He grasped the front of her gown, and she heard a tearing sound.
“I’d advise you to submit, little bird,” he said, his voice smooth. “What would your dear papa think of you if he knew you lured me here? Or your precious Hawthorne? Offering yourself to another so quickly after whoring yourself out to him?”
She reached up and dug her fingernails into his cheek. He cursed and relaxed his grip. Then she punched him in the jaw. He fell back, and she rammed her knee into his groin. He collapsed on the ground, gasping for air.
Fear flickered in his eyes. The fear of a bully. She had seen it on the farm twins’ expressions when they’d realized the folly in picking on someone with all the appearance of weakness.
“Have a care,” she said. “A common country girl is not above giving a weakling a good kicking.”
“Bitch!” He wiped his face and inspected the blood on his fingers. “You soiled whore! I ought to have you horsewhipped!”