by Royal, Emily
She blinked, and her eyes focused.
“Mr. Trelawney?”
He held his hand out. “Give me the child.”
“No!” she cried. “I’ve lost my husband. I can’t lose my child as well.”
“Hawthorne’s perfectly fine,” Ross said. “See for yourself. Westbury’s with him.” He pointed to where Hawthorne sat far below, another man kneeling beside him.
“We must get you down,” he said, his voice tight. He wiped his forehead. “It’s bloody high up here, Countess. Do me a favor, and let me help you before I pass out.”
Georgia shifted in Frederica’s arms. “Uncle Ross?”
“Yes, I’m here,” he said. “I need a brave little girl to help me climb down to your Papa. Can you do that?”
He held out his hand, and Georgia took it.
“Climb onto my back and hold tight.”
She did as he asked.
“Good. Now, off we go.” He swung his leg out while Georgia clung to him.
“Clever girl,” he said before turning his gaze to Frederica.
“Countess, wait for me. As soon as Georgia’s safe, I’ll return for you.”
“I can take care of myself,” Frederica said.
His eyes lit up with a smile of warmth. “Yes, you always could, couldn’t you? And those around you. I regret my outburst which cost me our friendship, and will always envy those fortunate enough to have you to take care of them.”
“You’ve not lost my friendship,” she said. “Nor will you ever.”
He nodded, then climbed down the ladder. She followed.
As soon as her foot touched the ground, strong arms plucked her off the ladder.
“I don’t need help.”
“Bloody hell,” Westbury’s cursed. “You’re as stubborn as my Jeanette.”
He set her down before addressing Ross, who had turned pale.
“I told you I should have gone up instead.”
“I didn’t realize how high it was,” Ross said. “It’s worse when you’re up there. Here you go, little angel.” He set Georgia down.
“Papa!” The child ran toward Hawthorne and threw her arms round his neck.
“My angel.” He embraced his daughter as if his life depended on it.
Markham’s body lay beside him. Westbury stood over it, hands in his pockets, and poked it with the toe of his boot.
Frederica averted her eyes. “Where’s Alice?”
“Gone,” Westbury said and pointed outside. Two footmen were walking back to the house, carrying a limp form between them. “She appears to have had a mental breakdown. I’ve told them to send for a doctor.”
“Poor, Alice,” Frederica breathed, “he must have been unbelievably cruel to her.”
“She made her choices,” Ross said. “She deserves everything she gets.”
Frederica recoiled at his bitterness. “How can you speak so?”
Westbury placed a hand on her arm. “If you side with the devil, you must pay the price.”
“For pity’s sake, Westbury, leave my wife alone!”
Hawthorne, Georgia clinging to him, was struggling to stand.
“Sit down, Stiles,” Westbury said. “You’re in no fit state to move.”
“You’ve no right to tell me what to do.”
“I’ve every right,” Westbury said. “If we hadn’t come looking for you out of concern over the amount of brandy you were drinking, you’d be dead. And so would your wife.”
“That’s enough!” Hawthorne growled. “Come here, Frederica.”
She hesitated, and he let out a sigh.
“Then I’ll come to you.” He limped toward her.
His nose was swollen where Markham had struck it. She reached up, succumbing to the instinct to soothe his pain.
“You’ve always felt my pain, haven’t you?” he asked quietly.
“Hawthorne…”
He caught her hand, brought it to his lips, and placed feather-light kisses on her knuckles.
“I cannot live without you, Frederica.”
She closed her eyes, fighting against the call of her heart which willed her to believe him.
“Oh, little changeling!” he cried. “A part of me always knew deep down that you didn’t leave me of your own free will,” he said. “You cannot understand the depths of my shame when I think of the cruel things I said. They were born of anger and loss, my love, not of hatred. The mere thought you wanted another, it almost killed me. Your note when you left…”
His voice tightened, and his body shuddered. She tipped her head up and brushed her lips against his.
“Did you never understand the words I’d written?” she whispered. “I remember them as if I’d written them yesterday. “I have only ever wanted one man, and nothing you can say or do will change my mind. If I cannot be with him, I would rather be alone.’”
She caressed his cheek with her thumb. “You were meant to think it was another. I wanted you to let me go, for your own sake, for your career, your reputation, and your life. But I couldn’t bring myself to write an untruth. Those words were about you, my love. I have never loved anyone but you.”
“Oh, Frederica!”
He pulled her to him and fisted his hand in her hair. He took her mouth with his, the lips of a man starved. With a groan, he kissed her, sweeping his tongue across the roof of her mouth, as if devouring her.
“Ahem…”
He broke the kiss, and she shrank back, shame heating her face. Westbury watched them, arms folded, but eyes were full of mischief, not disapproval.
“Ross and I will deal with things here, Stiles,” he said. “I suggest you take your wife home and made amends.”
Chapter Forty
Hawthorne kicked open the bedchamber door. Beads of perspiration adorned his forehead, but he held her firmly as he had during the journey home.
“Hawthorne, we can’t!” she cried, “I must check on Georgia and Mrs. Beecham.”
“The old woman’s fine, my love, and our daughter’s with Jenny.”
He sat her on the bed and kissed her. “Would you deny me the chance to atone?”
“I’ll deny you nothing,” she said, “but you’re hurt.”
“There’s no greater cure than the attention of a loving woman.”
“At least let me fetch Doctor McIver.”
“I have no intention of letting the good doctor join us,” he said, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes before his tone sobered. “Besides, he’s tending to the duchess. Markham has a lot to answer for.”
Frederica shuddered at the memory. By her own hand, she had pulled Markham from the ladder where he’d plunged to his death.
Hawthorne kissed her knuckles. “It was an accident, my love.”
“Are those the words of a husband or a magistrate?”
“Both. You’ve nothing to fear and nothing to reproach yourself over. You saved two lives, our daughter and the duchess. Had Markham lived, do you think Alice would have survived his fury?”
“Will she recover?”
“McIver’s an excellent doctor, but her wits have been snapped. Ross believes she deserves her fate, but I wouldn’t wish residence at Bedlam on anyone.”
“Bedlam. Dear lord…”
“Let us not speak of it.”
He traced a line along her arm, his touch sending ripples across her skin. Strong, deft fingers peeled off her dress and tugged at the laces of her corset. His breath quickened as he removed her undergarments, and he reached for her breasts, cupping them in his hands, caressing her tender skin. Small whimpers resonated in her throat, and she let out a little mewl of pleasure as her nipples hardened to painful, needy little points. She leaned back, pushing her chest upward, offering them to him.
“I’ve missed you,” he said hoarsely, “missed the taste of you.”
With the slow, relaxed motion of a powerful animal, he peeled off his jacket before removing his cravat and unbuttoning his waistcoat, dropping the garments onto the floor,
where they landed beside her own.
He sat back and held his hand out. “Come to me.”
Her skin tightened at the command, and her body moved with the instinct to obey. She crawled toward him. Ugly marks covered his torso, bruises where Markham had kicked him, and she placed her hand on his chest. The soft, rhythmic beat of his heart pulsed against her, the lifeblood of the man who had been prepared to die for her. She ran her hand across his chest, and he drew in a sharp breath.
“Does it pain you?”
“No more than I deserve.”
She leaned forward and pressed her lips against the bruise, inhaling the musky, male scent of him. How many years had she held his discarded necktie, the ragged cloth she had treasured, to her lips to recapture his familiar scent, even after it had long since faded?
Gently, she pushed him back on the bed.
“Let me ease your pain.”
She climbed on top of him and peppered light kisses across his chest, flicking her tongue out to taste the salt of his skin. A small growl erupted from his throat. His muscles tensed as he fisted the sheets in his hands, body vibrating with unmet need.
“I’ve missed the taste of you, Hawthorne.”
She ran her hands across his body, circling each bruise with her fingers before tracing the line with her tongue. She ran her fingertips over the soft, downy hair which grew thicker the further down she moved. His skin was on fire, a heat which grew hotter as she reached the nest of wiry curls where his manhood jutted out. She circled his girth with her hand, and he let out a groan.
“Frederica…”
“Hush,” she whispered. “Let me tend to you.”
His breath quickened as she ran her hand along his length and circled the tip with her thumb.
“Have I eased your pain?”
He groaned in response. She lowered her head and took him in her mouth, and he shuddered, his legs shifting with the tide of need as he moved to chase the pleasure he sought.
She swirled her tongue around the tip, and he cried out.
A hand fisted in her hair and pulled her back.
“I cannot last much longer,” he said. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
She straddled him until she felt his manhood against her center, where she was already slick with need. He lifted his hips to sheathe himself fully into her, but she resisted, rocking her body back and forth, chasing her own pleasure.
“Would you torment me?”
“Did you not always say the longer the denial, the greater the pleasure?”
“I have been denied you long enough.”
“Then you shall be denied no more.”
She drove her body down and impaled herself on him. He let out a cry as she withdrew. He held her firm while he thrust upward, slamming their bodies together. In a swift movement, he rolled over until he was on top of her, pinning her to the bed with his body.
He twisted his mouth into a devilish grin.
“And now, my love, it’s time to make reparation for your earlier denial.”
He withdrew slowly, then plunged into her again and again, increasing the pace with each thrust until his body burned inside her. Exquisite agony morphed into pure pleasure, and she cried out with the force of it. The wave crested, and her body disintegrated around him. With a roar of completion, he drove into her one final time, and she screamed his name as waves of pleasure ripped through her.
He clung to her, his body twitching with the aftershocks of his climax. At length, he lifted his head, and their eyes met. In the candlelight, his eyes looked pale, almost amber. Then he kissed her and sat up. He took her hand and traced the scars on her wrist with his fingers.
“I have a confession to make,” he said. “Your scars, the birds…” He shook his head. “I can keep it from you no longer.”
He blinked, and shame filled his expression. “When I see what Markham did to Alice, what it’s done to her mind—I’m as much of a monster as he, for what happened to you when you were a child. Coward that I am, I concealed my part in it for so many years.”
She placed a hand on his. “Say no more, my love,” she whispered. “I know what happened. I have always known.”
“Why did you say nothing?”
“It served no purpose,” she said. “Why should you be held to account for a childhood prank devised by your friends?”
“But I abandoned you on your father’s doorstep.”
She lifted her hand to his face and caressed his cheek, brushing away a bead of moisture with her thumb.
“You took me home, Hawthorne,” she said, “to Papa. You did the best thing you could have done for me, and I thank you for it.”
Their fingers interlocked, and he smiled. “It is a fortunate man indeed who secures the heart of a good woman,” he said. “And I consider myself the most fortunate man in all England. I pray that one day I can prove myself worthy of you.”
He reached across to the table beside the bed and picked up a box.
“I have a gift for you.” He handed it to her. “Open it.”
She lifted the lid to reveal a familiar row of sapphires and diamonds.
“Is this…?”
“Yes,” he said. “My mother’s necklace. I found it.”
“How?”
“I traced it from the pawnshop to a merchant in Hammersmith.” He smiled. “I managed to persuade him to part with it when I explained it was a family heirloom meant for the neck of the most beautiful woman in England.”
“I’m sorry I pawned it,” she said.
“You must never be sorry, my love. You did what you had to out of love. I return it to you now, as a token of my love.”
He lifted his hand and traced the outline of her face, then cupped her cheek, caressing her skin with his thumb.
“Forgive me, my love. Forgive the harsh things I said and did. Despite what I led you to believe, I have only ever loved one woman, and that is you. My own little changeling.”
“I never stopped loving you, Hawthorne,” she said. “My only consolation after I left was that you might find happiness with another. I could live in peace if I knew you were happy.”
“Then you’ve just proved what I always believed,” he said. “You will always be a better person than I.” He blinked, and a tear fell onto his cheek.
She wiped away with her finger. “Shed no tears for me, my love.”
“Selfish creature that I am, I shed tears for myself,” he said. “I don’t deserve you, for I had no wish for you to be happy with another. I only wanted you to be happy with me.”
“And so I shall.”
He pulled her to him, and she rested her head against his chest. Within moments, she drifted into a contented sleep, safe in the knowledge that nothing would ever part them again.
Epilogue
Hampshire, England, a few months later
The morning mist had yet to clear. Moisture penetrated Hawthorne’s coat, bleeding through to his skin. The watery light from the sun created a backdrop of gray, picking out the blurred shapes of the trees. Gravel crunched underfoot as he continued along the path. Another, larger shape materialized through the mist. The Stiles family chapel.
Throaty caws echoed above, and dark shapes circled in the air. The woman beside him stiffened, and her gloved fingers curled around his arm. In her free hand, she held a posy of wild flowers. Shortly after their retirement to Radley Hall at the end of the Season, Hawthorne had made arrangements for Stanford’s remains to be moved from the cemetery in London and interred within the family crypt. Since then, she had visited the building each week without fail.
“Frederica.”
She relaxed her grip and looked up at him, her clear eyes giving a burst of color to the otherwise gray landscape.
“Are you well, my love?”
She lowered her gaze to her belly where her pregnancy was already beginning to show.
“Always, when I’m with you.”
As they neared the building, the crows dispers
ed, and he led her inside, shutting out their caws of protest.
Their footsteps echoed as they descended the steps into the crypt.
At the bottom of the steps, she paused beside Adam’s memorial, the brother who had died before he’d had a chance at life. She knelt beside the stone, uttered a quiet prayer, and placed a flower beside it. Then she crossed the floor to a stone memorial illuminated in the diffused sunlight from a single window. A cluster of flowers lay at the bottom, already withering. She replaced the blooms with the posy, then traced the inscription with her finger.
Here lies Frederick Stanford,
Beloved father of Frederica,
Born into eternal life to look upon the blessed.
“Hello, Papa.”
Hawthorne stood back as she spoke to her father, telling him about his grandchildren—the exuberant little girl who currently slept at Radley Hall under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Beecham, and the grandchild to come. It was her moment, her time alone with her beloved Papa, and Hawthorne had no right to intrude.
When she finished, he helped her up.
“Come, my love. I’ve something to show you.”
He led her further into the vault where another stone had been inserted into the wall. A delicate pink marble, the inscription had been freshly cut.
“Hawthorne, what’s this?”
“I had it made,” he said. “For you.”
A small cry escaped her lips as she read the inscription, and she sank to her knees.
In memory of Mary White
Beloved mother of Frederica
Who, through suffering, delivered grace and salvation unto the world.
“My mother,” she choked, “but she was nothing to you, she…”
“She was the woman who bore you, my love. She brought you into the world and thus delivered my salvation. You are a part of her and, as your mother, I would honor and love her memory, as I love you. There will always be a place in my heart for her.”
Her body shook, and he pulled her into his arms.
“Hush, my love,” he said. “Let me heal your pain. Let us heal each other.”
He placed a kiss on the top of her head and breathed in the scent of her. “We must look to our future, Frederica. We have our beautiful child, and are soon to be blessed with another. But today, let us mourn the passing of our lost loved ones.”