Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  “Try it,” she said. “I’ve nothing to lose.”

  His face twisted with hatred, making his beautiful features quite ugly. How had she missed it? Had she been blinded by his gallantry, or by the hope that she had found a kindred spirit in a world where she’d always felt out of place?

  He struggled to his feet, and she moved toward him, fists raised. Conquering the fear which boiled inside her, she forced her expression into a cold smile and locked gazes with him.

  Papa’s voice called out in the distance.

  “Frederica! Are you there?”

  “Shall I invite him to join us?” Markham asked. “I’m sure he’d be interested to know why you asked me here in his absence.”

  “Please do,” she replied. “Did I ever tell you what an excellent shot he is?”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “A promise, my lord.”

  He blinked and lowered his gaze. With an air of nonchalance, he brushed the dust from his jacket and adjusted his necktie.

  “Pleasant as your company has been today, Miss Stanford, I find I must be going.”

  He moved closer, and his expression hardened. “I’d advise you to be careful, my dear. London society is a dangerous place for a woman. And contrary to popular belief, even a soiled whore has something to lose, something she values above all else. It’s just a matter of discovering what that is.”

  He clicked his heels together and bowed, then slipped between the bushes and disappeared, whistling. As soon as the merry tune faded into silence, the sickness churning inside her burst and she bent over, finally yielding to the fear which had almost conquered her. She retched and retched until there was nothing left except the bitter taste of betrayal.

  Chapter Twenty

  As Hawthorne entered the clubroom at Whites, he spotted Ross who waved him over. He sat in the chair next to his friend, and a footman appeared with his favorite brandy. He drained the glass and brandished it at the servant, who nodded, took it back, and retreated to refill it.

  Ross raised an eyebrow and sipped his drink with the measured action of a man who appreciated, rather than wasted, the comforts wealth afforded him. Society might think the worst of a man who acquired his fortune through trade. But hard work, though reviled, cultivated a self-control which most men of Hawthorne’s class could only dream of.

  Ross might envy Hawthorne for his title, which had eased his entry into establishments such as Whites, but, in turn, Hawthorne envied Ross his freedom—freedom to do what he liked with his fortune, being unshackled from entailments and the whims of trustees.

  And freedom to marry whomsoever he chose, even if Ross had squandered that freedom on the colorless de Grecy girl.

  If Hawthorne possessed such freedom, he’d have chosen someone far more worthy…

  Frederica…

  But instead, he’d taken her virtue like a hungry adolescent. Her view of the world had rendered her ignorant of the constraints of rank he suffered and the expectations placed upon him to marry well. Selfishly, he’d taken what she had willingly offered without a thought to the consequences. Then, propelled by a need to possess her for himself, he’d insulted her with his crass offer, attempting to justify his motives by arguing that it was for her benefit.

  Ashamed of his behavior, he’d attempted to call on her, but each time he’d arrived at her front door, the footman had informed him she was not at home. He couldn’t blame her—she had every reason to hate him.

  Had she told her father what he’d done? If Stanford had turned up on Hawthorne’s doorstep, pistol in hand, demanding retribution, some of Hawthorne’s guilt might have been spent. But instead, that guilt had festered.

  For the past fortnight he’d looked for her in every drawing room and ballroom he entered, disappointment dousing his anticipation when he couldn’t find her.

  She didn’t seem to be going out at all. Each morning, he rose early and ventured into Hyde Park, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But, save for the occasional clandestine liaison between lovers or a furtive young boy up to no good, the park was empty. Not even that profligate Markham was about.

  “You look out of sorts, my friend,” Ross said. “If I were the sort of man to indulge in the bet book, I’d wager a hundred guineas your ill humor is to do with a woman.”

  “I’m in no mood to discuss women,” Hawthorne said. “At least, not with a man who’s soon to slip his neck through the parson’s noose. Tell me, how does it feel? Are you a prisoner awaiting the gallows, or a witless fool blinded by the belief that wedded bliss awaits you?”

  Ross snorted. “More a blessed release than wedded bliss,” he said. The usual confident tone of his voice was conspicuous by its absence.

  “How so?” Hawthorne asked.

  “It seems as if I was deceived,” Ross said. “Miss de Grecy has broken our engagement. In favor, as she so eloquently put it, of a man better suited to her rank.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Ross let out a bitter laugh. “There’s no need for such insincerities, Stiles. It seems you, and the majority of my acquaintance, were right about her. A colorless, soulless hunter of titles. I was foolish enough to believe she was different, that a heart existed within that cold shell of hers. But in the end, ladies of a certain disposition will always value the prospect of being a duchess over that of becoming the wife of a businessman.”

  “A duchess?”

  “Yes,” Ross said, “after evicting me so swiftly from her affections, she’s accepted an offer from Markham.”

  Hawthorne’s heart skipped with relief. Though he felt sorry for his friend who, for all his efforts at appearing indifferent, clearly suffered from his fiancée’s change of heart, he couldn’t help but rejoice. Markham must have lost interest in seducing Frederica and turned his attention to the pursuit of a wife and a dowry. Doubtless, the man’s wastrel lifestyle had finally rendered him in need of cash.

  His little changeling was safe. And Ross would recover. A woman such as Miss de Grecy, who valued material wealth and a listing in Debrett’s, would only have made Ross miserable. She and Markham deserved each other.

  “What will you do?” Hawthorne asked.

  “I’ll confine myself to more pleasurable business transactions in the future,” Ross replied, “where the women who sell themselves prefer to deal with a man’s cash, rather than his heart. I toast them both. He’s welcome to her!”

  He drained his glass and rose to his feet. “Till tomorrow, Stiles,” he said. “I’ve better things to do than drink myself into a stupor over a harlot.”

  *

  Not twenty minutes after Ross left, the object of their discussion strolled into the clubroom, together with his friend, James Spencer. He stopped as he saw Hawthorne and gave a bow.

  “Stiles, how pleasant!”

  Hawthorne rose to his feet. “May I be the first to congratulate you, Markham?”

  Markham narrowed his eyes, as if in thought, then a slow smile crept across his mouth.

  “That’s uncommonly generous of you, Stiles,” he said. “I’d always taken you for a poor loser, but if you can be gracious in defeat, I’m prepared to overlook your incivility at your house party.”

  “Defeat?”

  “Yes,” Markham said. “You may have taken the first shot, as it were, but I’m the one who bagged the bird.”

  “The bird? I was speaking of Miss de Grecy.”

  “Oh, her,” Markham said. “I thought you were referring to my little bird, or should that be little changeling?”

  The skin crawled on the back of Hawthorne’s neck.

  Frederica…

  Markham’s smile broadened. “She invited me into her home so prettily,” he said. “I believe she was anxious to make a direct comparison between us.” He touched his face where three parallel scratches ran along one cheek. “A surprisingly vigorous partner.” He nudged his friend’s arm. “Was she not, Spencer? It must be the country upbringing.”

  Hawthorne tightened his
grip on the glass, and his knuckles whitened.

  “What have you done, Markham?”

  “Nothing she didn’t beg for,” Markham said, “but you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Though, in your eagerness to beat me to the chase, you forgot the basic rule, Stiles.”

  “Which is?”

  “Prowess will always win in the end. Now that she’s tasted better, I doubt she’ll spread her legs for you again, unless out of desperation.”

  With an explosion, the glass in his hand shattered and pain tore through his flesh.

  Markham’s eyes glittered with triumph. “By rights, I’m the one who should be affronted, Stiles, being offered your leavings. She begged me to set her up as my mistress…”

  “Stop there, Markham,” Hawthorne said, gritting his teeth to stem the tide of anger swelling inside, “unless you wish to take this outside.”

  Markham laughed. “You have no need to view me as a rival, Stiles. You may take pleasure in indulging in soiled goods, but I don’t find myself at such a loss.”

  The dam burst. Hawthorne swung at Markham’s smiling face. His fist connected with Markham’s nose. With an over-exaggerated howl, he dropped to the floor.

  “How dare you!” Markham cried. “You’ve broken my nose! Someone help me!”

  Two footmen approached and grasped Hawthorne by the arms.

  “I’ll do more than that,” Hawthorne said. “I’ll break your bloody neck!”

  “That’s quite enough of that, sir,” the older footman said. “Perhaps you need to step outside to cool off.”

  “You should throw him out for ungentlemanly behavior,” Markham growled.

  “Ban him for life,” Spencer added.

  Hawthorne struggled against the restraining arms, but the footmen, evidently practiced in evicting members who’d indulged in too much liquor, held him firm and marched him to the door.

  “Come along, Lord Stiles, you don’t want any trouble.”

  “Have a care, Stiles,” Markham called after him. “Your precious career hangs on your reputation. Society doesn’t want to see justice dispensed by a magistrate with a reputation for brandy and brawling. The pater is a good friend of the Regent, and I’m sure he’d take a keen interest in the moral compass of those among his subjects who dispense justice on us lesser mortals.”

  Before they pushed him outside, Hawthorne glanced over his shoulder. Markham stood, brandy glass in hand, a smile of triumph on his lips.

  *

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Stanford is not at home.”

  Despite having spotted her at one of the second-floor windows, Hawthorne wasn’t surprised at the footman’s response given that he’d uttered exactly the same words each time Hawthorne had tried to call on her. But this time, decorum took second place to the need to instill some sense into her head before she ruined her reputation completely.

  “Pay me the courtesy of telling me the truth,” he growled.

  “In that case,” the footman said, “she’s not receiving visitors.”

  “Then I’ll speak to Mr. Stanford.”

  “The master is out, sir. He’s at the docks, overseeing a shipment of wine.” The footman stared at Hawthorne, as if in challenge. Perhaps he thought the provision of detail regarding Stanford’s errand might disarm further accusations of falsehood.

  “I’ll wait until he returns,” Hawthorne said. “Let me in.”

  “I’m afraid, I cannot…Sir!” The footman exclaimed as Hawthorne pushed past him.

  But the young man lacked the confidence and brutishness of the footmen at Whites. Most Mayfair homes rarely suffered from the need to evict unwelcome earls.

  Hawthorne marched across the hall and into the morning room, while the footman followed, protesting loudly.

  “Don’t trouble yourself to bring any tea,” Hawthorne said. “Just tell your master, as soon as he arrives, to attend me here. I shall not move from this room until he does. Close the door behind.”

  The footman flinched at Hawthorne’s tone but complied with his orders. The arrogant demands of an earl would always yield the desired result, to a greater effect than the polite request of a family friend.

  After the footman had closed the door, Hawthorne heard male voices in the hall outside. Doubtless, the poor young man was explaining to the butler his inability to keep out intruders.

  He crossed the floor and took a seat. It was the same seat he’d spotted Markham sitting on the day Hawthorne had almost made love to Frederica. If only he could return to that day! He would have chased Markham out of the building and tried harder to make Frederica see reason. The jealousy which had burned within him at the thought of Markham seducing her had led her to the very ruination he’d tried to prevent.

  And it had been at his hands, his inability to resist her.

  The acrid smell of paint stung his nostrils. The table beside the window was laden with jars containing brushes, a palette, and a canvass, still bright with wet paint, mounted on an easel.

  He cast his eyes over the painting, and his heart tightened at the dark, twisted images. Gnarled trees, their branches stretching outward, giant claws tearing across a blood-red sky.

  Never before had he believed colors could be combined on a canvas to portray such pain.

  Had he hurt her that much? Or was her pain due to Markham’s rejection of her?

  A whisper of air caressed his skin, and he looked round.

  She stood in the doorway, a fistful of brushes in one hand, a jar of water in the other.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I’m not receiving visitors.”

  “Yet you invited Markham, did you not?”

  She stiffened but made no response, then she took a brush and swirled it in the water. But this time, her silence would not prevent him from finding out the truth.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  She sighed and set the brush down.

  “Yes,” she said. “I invited him. Now you’ve had your answer, please go.”

  “Not until I have satisfaction, Miss Stanford.”

  She turned to face him, her eyes glistening with distress. “You’ve already had your satisfaction, if I recall,” she said. “In one matter, at least, Roderick was right about you.”

  “Oh, Roderick, is it?” he said. “I might have guessed. Though I’m astonished at how quickly you’ve entered into such familiarity with him. Did my warning mean nothing to you? I told you, he’s always sought to have what’s mine. Or were you eager to compare us?”

  “How dare you!” she cried. She swept the jar off the table, and it landed with an explosion of splintering glass and water. “I thought you better than him, but you’re as bad as each other, vying for supremacy in the art of seduction! Was I nothing more than a prize to be fought over and claimed by the victor? Did the two of you set out to ruin me?”

  “Frederica, I never had any intention of ruining you.”

  “But you did, didn’t you?” she asked. “The only difference between you was the manner of your assault. You might consider yourself the better man because you used words rather than physical force, but your objective was the same.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” he cried. “I would never enter into anything so sordid, and certainly not with him.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To warn you to keep away from him before your reputation is ruined irrevocably. You’re already the subject of gossip. Markham has been boasting about your offer.”

  “My offer?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You think he’d be a better patron than I?”

  Her face twisted in horror. “You believed him?”

  “He’ll toss you aside within a week of setting you up,” he said, “however eagerly you spread your legs for him.”

  “I did no such thing!” she cried. “I fought him off.”

  “Did you?”

  “He forced himself on me!”

  “And you let him?”

  She slapped him
across the face. “Get out!” she screamed.

  A low cry rose up from behind.

  Stanford stood in the doorway. The anger which had strengthened her drained from her body, to be replaced by horror and shame.

  “P-papa…”

  “Frederica!” Stanford shook his head. “Is it true? Have you lain with a man?”

  “How long have you been standing there?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Long enough,” Stanford replied. “Answer my question, daughter.”

  Frederica cast a glance at Hawthorne. Her chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, and she nodded.

  “Forgive me, Papa.”

  Stanford opened his arms to her. “There’s nothing to forgive, Rica. Come here.”

  She rushed toward her father, and he took her in his arms, giving her the comfort she needed, the comfort Hawthorne should have given her.

  “It’s my fault,” Stanford said. “I should never have brought you to London. Society here is too degenerate.”

  “Sir,” Hawthorne said. “Let me help. Her reputation…”

  Stanford raised his hand. “Stop there!” he said. “Her reputation is nothing compared to her happiness. I believe my daughter asked you to leave.”

  “But…”

  “Please respect her wishes and go,” Stanford said. “I’ll be damned if see my child distressed any further.”

  “Very well,” Hawthorne said. “But at least let me call on you tomorrow.”

  “As you wish. I care not.”

  She was safe in her father’s arms. Stanford was the one creature in the world who truly loved her and who had never let her down. And in doing so, he shone a light on Hawthorne’s own inadequacy.

  Hawthorne clicked his heels together, issued a bow, and left.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After evicting Hawthorne, Papa ushered Frederica to a chair. Trembling with shame, she sat, waiting for his accusation.

  But none came. The ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf filled the silence, the flat notes beating out a rhythm of disdain and contempt.

  Her secret was out.

  She closed her eyes but it made no difference; she couldn’t will him away. She heard the sound of liquid being poured, and a glass was pushed into her hand.