Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  “My love,” he whispered. “Make me the happiest of men.”

  “A mistress is no different than a whore.”

  He tightened his grip at her last word and groaned.

  “Even now, you think the worst of me! I’m offering you my hand. You complete me. Without you, I’m only half a man, half a soul. Everything I am and have is nothing compared to you.”

  He turned his face to her stomach, fearful of her reaction. “Marry me, Frederica. I’m not ashamed to say I need you. Say the word, and you’ll make me the happiest man alive. But if you wish it, I’ll release you from my guardianship.”

  He waited, uncertain for the first time in his life. She remained silent, the only sound the ticking of a clock in the distance, as if the whole house waited for her response.

  At length she lowered herself to her knees and cupped his chin.

  “Yes.” She blinked, and a tear splashed onto her cheeks. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  He leaned forward, and his forehead touched hers.

  “I never want to let you go,” he whispered. “If you left, it would destroy me. Promise me, little changeling. Swear you’ll never leave.”

  “On my life, I swear.”

  “I’ll make the announcement in the newspapers tomorrow,” he said. “I want us to be married as soon as possible, but I won’t petition the archbishop for a special license.”

  “Why not?”

  He stroked her hair, tracing an outline of her face until his fingers touched her lips. “I wish to do this properly,” he said. “We’ll announce the engagement and have the banns read, to show the world there’s no shame in our union. We shall be married in a month, in front of all society, so they may bear witness to my becoming the luckiest man alive.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her, then hesitated.

  “I must leave you be until our wedding night, until you are completely mine.”

  She took his hand and kissed his knuckles.

  “I’m already yours, Hawthorne. I never want to be parted from you, not for a single moment.”

  He lifted her into his arms. “Then come, little one,” he said. “I’m going to spend the rest of the night making love to you, and the rest of my life loving you.”

  *

  The light of a solitary candle flickered as Hawthorne opened his chamber door. He would willingly drown in her beautiful eyes. His body had hardened the moment she’d accepted him. But to hold her in his arms again, to feel that soft flesh, his body had almost burst with desire.

  Nothing mattered, save the need to satisfy the deep craving to own her completely. Forever. If he had to lock her up so no other man would touch her, then he would.

  Like a devotee ready to worship her, he placed her on the bed and peeled off her gown. His expert fingers unlaced her corset. She surpassed any woman, for no one could touch his soul like she did. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, accentuating the shape of her body, her slim hips, those lush breasts which had been fashioned just for him, with their little peaks standing erect, beckoning to him.

  He pulled off his shirt and threw it behind him, not once taking his gaze away from her. Her eyes showed such trust in him. And he would never betray her again.

  He stepped out of his breeches and climbed on the bed. His manhood was rigid with pain, begging to be buried among those red curls. She lowered her gaze and drew in a sharp breath.

  “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 eyes. He shifted his body, and his manhood brushed against her, moving against her belly. The musky scent of his own need thickened in the air. She shifted her legs, and he almost exploded with release at the sweet scent of her desire.

  He settled himself on top of her and nudged her knees apart.

  “Trust me,” he whispered.

  He traced the outline of her breasts with his fingertips, then moved his hand lower, caressing her stomach, until he reached her curls. His body surged forward as if pulled by an invisible chain, and he fought the primal urge to claim her.

  “I can’t hold on much longer…”

  “Hawthorne.” Though quiet, her voice reached into his soul.

  With a cry, he thrust forward. Her body shuddered against him, but she kept her eyes open, not hiding from him, but giving herself to him. The trust in her gaze was his undoing, and he withdrew and plunged into her again. The raw pain of sweet release tore through him as he shattered against her, a wave against a rock, surrendering.

  He was nothing without her. She completed him, made him whole.

  “Oh, Frederica!” He cried her name. He had found his mate.

  Still inside her, he wrapped his arms around her, tightening his grip as if expecting her to slip away. Her body stiffened.

  “No, Frederica,” he said. “Be still. You’re mine, now.”

  She closed her eyes but not before he caught a flash of something in them—fear or mistrust? But it didn’t matter. She was now his, wholly his. And nobody would take her from him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Frederica woke, the chamber was already bright. The sunlight stretched across the room, highlighting dust motes which swirled in the air. Until this morning, she’d always woken before the dawn, her mind unwilling to remain in the land of dreams where predators lurked in the shadowy recesses.

  But last night, her nightmares had been driven away by Hawthorne. After taking her the first time, he had drifted into a fitful sleep, her name on his lips. But during the night, he’d claimed her again, as if driven by desperation.

  But now he had gone, the only evidence he’d been there a delicious soreness between her legs and an imprint of his form in the bed which bore traces of warmth and the scent of him.

  She yawned and stretched, then sat up. A wave of nausea rippled through her, and she took a deep breath.

  The door opened, and he entered the bedchamber, holding a flat, square box. Fully dressed in a dark blue jacket, cream waistcoat, breeches, and polished leather boots, he looked every bit her superior compared to her disheveled, naked form. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she lifted the bedsheet to cover her nudity.

  He approached the bed and opened the box. A flash of light caught her eyes. Nestled among smooth, blue satin lay a necklace. A row of sapphires surrounded by tiny diamonds winked at her, the sunlight reflecting off the facets, diffracting into tiny rainbows.

  “To mark our engagement,” he said. “It was my mother’s. Do you like it?”

  He moved to the sofa beside the fireplace and beckoned to her. “Come here so I can put it on you.”

  She reached for her undergarments.

  “No!”

  Her body froze at his ability to control her with a single word.

  “Let me savor the sight of you.”

  She drew back the coverlet and stepped off the bed. He cast his gaze over her naked body, and the heat rose within her at his scrutiny. The need which had consumed him last night gleamed in his eyes. He pulled her onto his lap and placed the necklace around her throat.

  “Beautiful…” he breathed.

  He set her on the sofa beside him and gently, but firmly, pushed her back. Strong hands teased her thighs apart, and long, lean fingers caressed her skin. He kissed the inside of her thigh, his breath warm against her flesh.

  “Trust me,” he whispered. “I only want your pleasure.”

  His lips moved toward her center where the ache screamed to be eased. Stubble chafed her skin, igniting shockwaves of pleasure through her.

  “Let me taste you.”

  Slow, rhythmic pulses rippled deep within her, and she squirmed under his exquisite touch.

  “So responsive, my darling,” he said, his voice hoarse. He traced a line across her stomach, following a path up her body and between her breasts, until he came to the necklace, which he hooked under his fingers and lifted.

  “It looks beautiful on you, Frederica,” he said soft
ly. “You were born to be a countess. And I shall worship you until my dying day.”

  She reached toward him, but he caught her hand.

  “I’m afraid there’s no time,” he said. “I’m overseeing a hearing today.”

  “Is it important?”

  “Yes,” he said. “A young woman accused of assaulting her husband.”

  “And did she?”

  He sighed. “The evidence suggests she did. She claimed she acted in self-defense, but the law permits a husband to correct his wife.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wish I were in a position to change the law rather than administer it.”

  “Is there nothing you can do?”

  “Even if I have no choice but to declare a guilty verdict, I have the means to ensure her protection,” he said, smiling. “There are many sanctuaries for the lost and dispossessed. One only needs to know where to find them.”

  “You’re a good man, Hawthorne.”

  “That’s all I have ever wanted,” he said. “To further the cause of true justice. And to have the woman I love in my arms. If I have nothing else, I’ll die a happy man.”

  He reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out a pocket watch, then snapped it shut.

  “I must go,” he said. “Will you be all right in my absence?”

  She smiled. “You’ve been absent before, Hawthorne.”

  “Ah, but not while betrothed to my elusive faerie. I fear if I blink, she may disappear.”

  “I wondered if I might venture out, to pay a call?”

  His smile disappeared. “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “I can take Jenny, if you think I need a chaperone.”

  “It’s not that…” he hesitated. “I just want you to be safe. We can take a walk together when I return. Who do you wish to visit?”

  “Just a friend.”

  His eyes showed uncertainty, and she took his hand and kissed it.

  “Hawthorne, I won’t leave you. You have my word.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m merely being foolish. I’ll send Jenny to help you dress.”

  He pulled her to him and gave her a long, lingering kiss, then released her.

  “Until later, my love.”

  *

  “Do you know what’s wrong with me, Doctor McIver?”

  Frederica sat opposite the doctor’s desk and took a sip from the glass of water he’d offered her. After congratulating her on her engagement, he swiftly dispensed with niceties, exercising the brisk efficiency of a medical practitioner in performing an examination.

  He finished rinsing his hands and wiped them with a towel, then took the seat at his desk.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you, Miss Stanford. I’m pleased to say you’re fully recovered from when I last saw you.”

  “Then why have I been sick?”

  He smiled. “The most natural reason in the world, my dear. I’m afraid you’re pregnant.”

  Her stomach gave a little jolt, and she placed her hand over it.

  Dear Lord…

  The doctor leaned forward, his forehead creased into a frown. “I understand it’s a delicate matter, but may I be permitted to enquire as to the…” he gave a nervous cough, “…the circumstances?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, and lowered her gaze, her cheeks warming with shame.

  The silence stretched and, at length, he sighed. “I ask only out of your welfare, Miss Stanford. It will help me determine when you are expected to enter your confinement. Of course, that’s assuming you wish for me to attend you.”

  Her hand shook as she set the glass on the desk. “It was a month ago.”

  “I see,” he said. “That explains the sickness you were suffering when I treated you before. And…” he hesitated, “…the other party?”

  She closed her eyes. “It was Hawth… Lord Stiles.”

  “Forgive me for asking, my dear,” McIver said. “When are you to be married?”

  “Next month.”

  “I take it you don’t want him to know about your condition?”

  “I–I would rather he didn’t,” she said. “I’ve caused him enough scandal.” She blinked, and a tear splashed onto her cheek.

  McIver rose from his seat and circled the desk to stand beside her. A warm hand engulfed hers.

  “I quite understand, lass,” he said. “Society is a world of many rules, some of which exist to perpetuate the distinction of rank. Where one’s livelihood and wellbeing are too often dependent on reputation and adherence to such rules, the smallest indiscretion can change the course of lives.”

  “But the child,” she said, “when it’s born, Hawthorne will know I’ve deceived him.”

  “Your child will be born seven months after your marriage,” McIver said. “A seven-month baby is not so unusual as to raise suspicion.”

  “I cannot let you be party to a deception.”

  “My primary concern is your health and wellbeing,” he said. “You’re not the first young woman to experience such a predicament, and you won’t be the last. I understand your desire for discretion, and I swear I will not breach your trust or divulge a single word of what passes between us. I would be breaking my oath to my profession if I did. But I would advise you to tell Stiles the truth. I’m sure he would understand. It takes two to make a child, after all.”

  “I cannot risk anyone else finding out,” she said. “Society already looks on him unfavorably for his association with me.”

  “Then tell him once you’re married,” McIver said. “The whole of society could overhear and it wouldn’t matter. It’s not unusual for a wedding night union to bear fruit.”

  In her mind, she saw Hawthorne taking her hand and kneeling before her while she told him he was to be a father—the love in his expression as he drew her to him and claimed her with hungry lips and loving hands…

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll tell him once we’re married.”

  The doctor gave her a smile and patted her hand. “When I send his lordship my account, I will, with your permission, say I treated you for a mild sickness—which, I’ll add, is the truth.”

  She rose from her seat. “Thank you, Doctor McIver. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  “May I summon a hackney carriage?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. I’d rather walk.”

  “Take care of yourself, my dear.”

  He took her hand and bowed, then escorted her down to the hall where Jenny stood waiting.

  As she stepped out onto the street, she collided with a man and dropped her reticule.

  “Begging your pardon, miss!”

  He stooped to retrieve it and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “No harm done, miss.” His eyes, a pale blue, looked almost colorless in the sunlight as he gazed at her with a thoughtful expression. Then his mouth curled into a smile, showing white, even teeth. “Mind how you go, now.”

  She crossed the street, Jenny following. As she reached the junction with New Cavendish Street, she glanced over her shoulder. The man stood beside McIver’s doorstep, watching her. He thrust his hands into his pockets, headed along Harley Street in the opposite direction and disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A month after she’d agreed to make him the happiest of men, Hawthorne stood beside his fiancée, ready to greet their guests on the eve of their wedding. She glowed with health and happiness, though their engagement had proven to be something of an ordeal for her.

  Since the announcement of their betrothal in the Times, he’d protected her from the worst of the gossip, but he could not miss the disapproving glances cast their way when they walked out together. Once they were married, his title would protect her from any overt incivility.

  And there was Markham. They’d managed to avoid that bastard until tonight. Tongues would have wagged if he’d been excluded from Hawthorne’s party, now he’d married Alice de Grecy, who was known to be F
rederica’s friend.

  As if fate heard his thoughts, the footman announced Markham and his wife. The hand engulfed in Hawthorne’s tightened, her grip on his fingers the only sign of Frederica’s distress. They had argued about his invitation, the first sign of discord between them. But he’d be damned if Markham caused a rift between them.

  When they were alone, his skittish little changeling abandoned her protective layers and released her true self—a wild, wanton creature. The passion he’d seen in her eyes manifested itself into a goddess who gave herself to him night after night, her warm, welcoming body drawing him to previously unknown heights of pleasure.

  He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and she looked up and smiled. Her lips glowed pink in the candlelight, as they had done only the night before when she’d taken him into her mouth. Her craving to please him surpassed her own need for pleasure. He’d never believed such a woman existed, but his little changeling was unique. Perhaps that was why he craved to be near her constantly, for fear she’d be spirited away.

  Markham approached him and bowed, his colorless wife on his arm.

  “We’re honored you could come,” Hawthorne said.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Markham replied, his gaze focused on Frederica. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Stanford?”

  Frederica dipped a curtsey but said nothing. She addressed Lady Markham, but Alice only gave her a curt nod.

  Markham smiled indulgently. “Permit my wife some liberties, Miss Stanford. Her standards of proprietary are unsurpassed. She was as surprised as I to hear of your engagement. But we wish you the best. May you be bestowed with the fate you deserve.”

  Frederica’s body stiffened against Hawthorne, and he squeezed her fingers.

  “Thank you, Markham,” he said coldly, gesturing toward the ballroom. “Please go in, we’ve no wish to detain you further.”

  Frederica’s body relaxed, and a small sigh escaped her lips.

  “Good girl,” Hawthorne whispered. She colored and looked down; they were the very same words he used as praise when she pleasured him.

  The footman announced the next guest, Henry Drayton, Lord Ravenwell.