Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  “Why, you…” Frederica raised her arm, and Hawthorne caught her wrist. It was thin and bony under his fingers. She struggled against him, her eyes blazing with anger, but he held firm.

  Beyond Markham and his fiancée, a small crowd had begun to form.

  “Temperamental fillies should be placed in a halter, don’t you know, Stiles?” Markham said mildly.

  “How dare you!” Frederica hissed. “I hate you for what you’ve done!”

  Markham laughed. “It was at your hand, my dear,” he said. “After all, you invited me so prettily.”

  “I did not!”

  “You must remember,” Markham said. “You took such pains to summon me when your father was not at home. You were so eager to show me your secret place in the garden, weren’t you?”

  The color left Frederica’s face.

  Markham issued a bow. “Alice, it’s time we left. Stiles, Trelawney—Miss Stanford—I bid you good day.”

  As the couple disappeared round a corner, Hawthorne pulled the trembling Frederica to him. Guilt and horror pulsed through her expression.

  “Frederica, what did Markham mean?”

  “Stiles,” Ross said, “We should continue this conversation somewhere private.”

  The crowd had grown in size, their whispers filling the air. Hawthorne tightened his hold on Frederica’s wrist and marched back toward the waiting carriage. She made no attempt to resist, and he bundled her inside, then climbed in after her.

  “Are you coming, Ross?”

  Ross shook his head. “I’ll make my own way home.” He leaned through the carriage window and lowered his voice. “Be kind.”

  The carriage set off with a jerk, but she made no attempt to move.

  “Tell me the truth, Frederica. Did you invite him?”

  She nodded. “I–I wanted to tell him…” Her voice tailed off as she looked directly at Hawthorne. Whatever she saw in his expression froze her speech. She lowered her gaze to the door handle but before she could move, he took her wrist.

  “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me the truth.”

  “When were you going to tell me the truth?” she cried.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “About Papa. Does the world think him a murderer? Don’t they know the man parading around Hyde Park with my friend on his arm murdered Papa?”

  “There’s no proof your father was murdered!” Hawthorne cried. “He entered the duke’s home, in full view of his son and servants, with one intent. To kill him!”

  “But you know different!” she cried. “Surely you can do something? Aren’t you supposed to dispense justice?”

  “Not in the face of such overwhelming evidence,” he said. “Think about it, Frederica. You issue an invitation to Markham while unaccompanied, and a few days later, your father turns up at his doorstep brandishing a pistol. Any fool in possession of the facts would draw the same conclusion.”

  “Nothing happened!” she cried. “I fought him, and he left me alone!”

  “Sadly, there is no one to corroborate your side of the story.”

  She grew still, and her stricken expression clawed at his heart. He pulled her toward him.

  “Forgive me, Frederica, I wanted to protect you from the truth. I was going to tell you when you were ready.”

  “What, ready to learn that the world sees Papa as a murderer?” she snarled. “I’ll never be ready for that, but I could have borne it had I not realized you believed it also.”

  “Frederica,” he said. “I…”

  “Don’t,” she interrupted, withdrawing her hand. “If you didn’t believe it, you would have defended him just now.”

  “You must pay no attention to what I say in public, Frederica,” he said. “Listen instead to what I say to you now.”

  He moved to take her hand again, and she folded her arms and turned her head away.

  “How silly of me,” she said, “to believe you valued integrity over your position in society.”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I only want you to be happy.”

  She turned her head, and he was assaulted by her green gaze, sadness and resignation gleaming in her soulful eyes.

  “Nothing you do or say will achieve that,” she said. “Just take me home.”

  He nodded and issued an order to the driver. The carriage set off. Perhaps he’d ventured out with her too soon. She was not ready for the world just yet. But he owed it to her to try again.

  And the perfect occasion would come as soon as Markham was married and safely out of the country on his honeymoon.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Would you prefer the yellow or the blue, Miss?” Jenny placed two dresses on the bed. “If you don’t mind my being so bold, the blue shows off the color of your hair better.”

  “Then I’ll wear the yellow. I’ve no wish to attract attention tonight.”

  “But Miss…”

  “The yellow, Jenny. Do as I say.”

  The maid recoiled at Frederica’s tone. Poor Jenny had worked so hard to make her feel comfortable and had grown adept at taking care of Frederica, despite her lack of training as a lady’s maid.

  And Frederica repaid her with harsh words.

  She took Jenny’s hand. “Forgive me, I spoke out of turn.”

  “No, miss, I forget my place,” Jenny said. “But you look so lovely in the blue.”

  Jenny was a romantic fool. Her obvious infatuation for Harry, as pleasant as the footman might be, clouded her judgement. But Frederica did not have the heart to admonish her further.

  “Would it please you if I wore it, Jenny?”

  “Oh, yes!” the maid said. “And it would please the master. Harry told me he’d overheard him telling Mr. Trelawney that blue is his favorite color on you.”

  The master.

  Hawthorne.

  Since their altercation in Hyde Park, Hawthorne had resumed his enjoyment of London society, disappearing to balls and parties, often returning with his friends while Frederica lay in her bedchamber, cold and alone, listening to laughter downstairs. She had promised she’d never leave him, yet he abandoned her to enjoy the company of others.

  But tonight, at Mr. Trelawney’s insistence, Hawthorne was taking her to a ball. Mr. Trelawney had visited her on a number of occasions. He’d admired her paintings, even insisting he purchase some. Perhaps some men existed who sought only friendship from the opposite sex.

  Hawthorne waited for her by the bottom step. A dark green jacket fitted his form perfectly, and his breeches clung to his legs like a second skin. Polished black boots completed the look. As if he sensed her, he turned slowly and lifted his gaze. The buttons on his waistcoat glinted in the candlelight, mirroring the flecks of gold in his eyes.

  He looked magnificent. No wonder he had hadn’t wanted her to accompany him before. He outshone her as the sun dwarfed a candle.

  He held out his hand, and she drifted down the stairs, a falcon gliding toward her master’s hand.

  “Frederica.” His eyes crinkled into a smile. The sharp scent of desire thickened in the air, and his nostrils flared.

  “I’m glad I chose to take you with me tonight.”

  She tipped her head up to meet his gaze, and he lowered his mouth over hers. A fire ignited in the pit of her belly.

  “Ahem.”

  He pulled away and smoothed down his waistcoat.

  “Of course, Giles, we mustn’t be late. Lord Wilcott is expecting us. Come, Miss Stanford, the carriage awaits.”

  *

  Frederica lifted her glass to her lips. She wrinkled her nose at the sickly-sweet taste of the punch, so unlike the rich depth of Papa’s port, but it helped to soothe her nausea.

  After finding her a seat, Hawthorne had joined the dancers. His initial disappointment at her refusal to dance was replaced by gallant enthusiasm as ladies surrounded him, brandishing their dance cards. Mr. Trelawney had approached her several times, trying to involve her in conversation, but whi
le she appreciated his kindness, she had no wish to draw attention to herself by speaking.

  Their hosts had made their hostility plain. Lord Wilcott seemed gentlemanly enough when Hawthorne introduced them to Frederica. But Lady Wilcott had stared at her as if she were an insect, saving her smiles for Hawthorne as he complimented her on the string of pearls decorating her headdress.

  And now he’d abandoned her to bestow compliments on others, elegant women who lived colorless, pampered existences, women whose idea of suffering was the absence of sufficient sugar in their tea or the wrong shaped fork in a place setting.

  They lived in a world in which Frederica didn’t belong, and had no wish to.

  The mass of people shifted to form an even pattern of couples running the length of the ballroom. One couple stood out from the rest. A tall figure moved with the easy fluidity of one born to live in the privileged world of the rich and titled. His partner, though taller than some of the men, could not match him in height. As the dancers moved along the rows, she caught a glimpse of his face. But Hawthorne had eyes for none but his companion, the honorable Louisa Wilcott.

  Her hair shone like gold and curled around her face in soft waves. As she moved her head, the diamonds studding her hair twinkled in the light. Pale blue eyes hardened as they focused on Frederica before she resumed her attention on her partner. A perfect, heart-shaped mouth smiled graciously at him, and she parted her lips to speak. He glanced in Frederica’s direction and laughed.

  No amount of schooling would give Frederica a fraction of Miss Wilcott’s accomplishments. She was, without doubt, the most beautiful creature Frederica had ever seen.

  “That she is, my dear.”

  She started at the voice. An elderly woman sat on her right.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You said she was beautiful.” The woman nodded toward Hawthorne’s companion. “If any woman can secure Earl Stiles, she can.”

  Frederica tightened her grip on her glass as the woman rattled on, evidently relishing the opportunity to gossip.

  “Everyone’s expecting him to offer for her soon,” she continued, her voice lifting with the pleasure of having someone to talk at.

  The ground shifted beneath Frederica’s feet. The colors dissolved around her, turning the world gray, and the music morphed into muffled, discordant sounds, the faint beating of wings in the background. The nausea which had been plaguing her for almost a month, threatened to overcome her, and she drew in a deep breath.

  “My dear, are you all right?”

  “I think I’ve had too much punch.”

  “May I fetch someone? Your mother, perhaps?”

  Frederica shook her head.

  “Your father?”

  With a word of apology, she leapt to her feet, and crossed the floor to the balcony doors in search of fresh air.

  A pair of ladies stood near the doors, heads bent together, deep in conversation.

  As Frederica passed them, she heard a name.

  “Stanford…”

  Reason told her to keep moving. What good came of eavesdropping?

  “Yes, that’s it! Frederica Stanford,” the second woman said. “Her father was the wine merchant.”

  “The one who died under suspicious circumstances?”

  “I heard it was an accident.”

  “That’s what the papers said, but I heard he tried to murder Markham!”

  “Over what, an unpaid bill?”

  “Whatever it was, it’s left Stiles with an unexpected houseguest.”

  “Louisa won’t want her in the house when she enters it.”

  “Of course not, Maria,” the first woman lowered her voice. “Not even Stiles, with his sensibilities toward the lower classes, would insult his fiancée by letting his harlot remain under her nose.”

  “Is she here tonight?”

  “Yes, poor Louisa told me she was forced to greet her. Finish your punch, and I’ll point her out.”

  Frederica moved away, her heart thumping. She grasped a glass of punch from a nearby footman and drained the contents. But rather than steady her nerves, it only made her body shiver more violently.

  It was only a matter of time before Hawthorne tossed her out.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As soon as Hawthorne helped Frederica into the carriage, she fell asleep, most likely due to an overindulgence of punch. She’d spent the whole evening avoiding company, drinking, and refusing to dance or even take a turn with him round the room. Only Ross had been able to lift her spirits, albeit, only a little. She smiled for him, at least, if nobody else.

  When the carriage stopped outside his townhouse, she jerked awake. A momentary flash of terror crossed her expression, and he took her hand, her fingers ice cold against his. She turned her gaze to him, and his stomach knotted.

  The trust in her eyes had gone.

  She let him lead her inside, but when he moved toward the stairs, she froze in the middle of the hall.

  “Miss Stanford?”

  “I want to leave.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She withdrew her hand. “I’ve no wish to stay here anymore. Take me home.”

  “This is your home, Frederica,” he said.

  “No, it’s not. Take me to my real home. I have the income from Papa’s business. I can support myself.”

  “You’re not ready.”

  “Who are you to tell me whether I’m ready or not?”

  He reached for her, but she backed away, hostility in her expression.

  “Frederica, what’s happened?”

  “I wish to make room, my lord.”

  The formal tone of her voice belied the turmoil boiling in her expression.

  “Make room?”

  “For your bride,” she said. “I have no wish to put you, or the honorable Louisa, to the trouble of having to turn me out.”

  “Foolish creature!” he said. “You think I’d be tempted by that peacock?”

  “I saw you with her, all smiles and charm. You looked so happy with her, so animated, as if she breathed life into you. As if I’m nothing compared to her. I may have lost everything, but I will never yield my dignity. And I refuse to be an unwelcome guest here.”

  “Good God, Frederica!” he cried. “You think my natural disposition is to titter with laughter every time a lady makes a vacuous comment on the cut of another’s gown?”

  “Are you not driven by the need to court a lady, something I shall never be?”

  Bitter laughter burst from his chest at the preposterousness of her words. “Do you wish me to bestow such niceties on you, when you are worth so much more? If I wanted you less, I’d be able to flatter you as I do those vapid creatures.”

  A stray curl tumbled over her forehead. He brushed it aside, and her lips trembled at his touch.

  “I want none of them, little changeling. I have only ever wanted one woman, to the exclusion of all others.”

  He caught her hand and pulled her into an embrace. “I have that woman in my arms now.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers, and a whimper bubbled in her throat. She parted her lips, and her body softened in his arms. He brushed her breast with his hand, and beneath the soft muslin of her gown, her nipple hardened against his palm.

  She arched her back against him in offering.

  A groan burst from his chest, and he devoured her mouth, unable to control the need simmering in his body.

  “You’re mine, Frederica,” he whispered. “You’ve always been mine.”

  Her body stiffened in his arms. She grasped his shoulders as if to push him away, but remained still for a moment. Then she pulled him toward her and claimed his lips. One hand fisted in his hair while she thrust her tongue into his mouth, her teeth grazing against his lips. Her other hand traced a path down his chest, then slipped inside his breeches. His manhood jerked at her touch. As he grew hard, she curled her fingers round him and squeezed, tightening her grip.

  She sunk her teeth into
his lip, and he tasted blood.

  “What will I earn if I perform to your satisfaction?” she asked. “I confess I do not yet possess the experience to effect a proper negotiation, but when you first enjoyed my services, I believe a necklace was mentioned.”

  He fisted his hand in her hair and yanked her head back. Tear-stained eyes stared back at him.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “What you want!” she cried. “I know what they call me, I heard it tonight. At least have the compassion not to parade me in front of them so I’m forced to hear it from their lips.”

  “Hear what?”

  “That I’m your harlot!”

  “Oh, Frederica!” he said. “Is this what I’ve brought you to? Never think of yourself in such a manner. You are worth more to me than the world itself.”

  “But, what you said before…”

  “I was mistaken,” he said. “You’ll never know how deeply I regret saying those things to you. You think I want to hide you away from the world? Tonight was about showing the world that your place is by my side. And I intend to do that in every drawing room in Mayfair.”

  She broke free and stepped back. “I think you’ll find your mistress would not be welcome in the drawing rooms of London, however many necklaces you indulge her with.”

  Dear Lord, he was making such a hash of this! Trelawney would laugh himself silly.

  He brushed his hand across his eyes.

  “My love for you cannot be measured in jewelry or gifts,” he said. “Though I hope you’ll permit me to indulge in adorning you with tokens. Forgive me for my inability to articulate my love better.”

  He took her hands and caressed the skin of her wrists, running his thumbs along the scars, then dipped his head, and brushed his lips against them. Then he lowered himself onto his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist.