Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  “I almost didn’t make it here,” Hawthorne said. “Samson nearly threw me yesterday.”

  Ross sipped from one of the glasses and offered the other to Hawthorne. “Your new Arabian?”

  Hawthorne took the proffered glass. “I should have called him Satan.” He drained it in a single gulp. “Next time he throws me, I’ll shoot him. Not even Bartlett can control that horse when he’s spooked. Bloody thoroughbreds. They’re all insane.”

  Ross let out a laugh. “If you think a creature should be shot for being inbred to the point of insanity, you’d have to take your pistol to most of the company here tonight!”

  Hawthorne cast his gaze over the crowd; row upon row of debutantes accompanied by adoring mamas.

  “Good God, Ross. Look at all those desperate women. I’d rather be trampled by Samson than endure their company.”

  “If you wish to secure a wife, my friend, you must inspect the prospective purchases. What better marketplace than Viscount Hartford’s ballroom?”

  “I’d prefer a private viewing.”

  Ross chuckled. “I can well believe it. Gentlemen are supposed to vie for the services of a mistress. You, by all accounts, have the pick of the crop when it comes to courtesans.”

  “I had an early start.”

  “Even so, experience is no match for talent. You, sir, have a natural ability for delivering pleasures most creatures can only dream of.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I speak the truth,” Ross said. “Perhaps you’d care to be generous and share the secret of your success in persuading women with no more than a single look, to part their thighs.”

  “I give them what they need.”

  “Riches and fine gowns? I shower my Kitty regularly with trinkets, yet her eyes wander in your direction. I’ll wager she’s waiting for you to dispose of Cherise so she can defect into your bed.”

  Hawthorne sighed. Ross, though intelligent, lacked the ability to see deep inside a person to understand their innermost desires. “I didn’t say I give women what they want, Ross. I give them what they need.”

  “Which is?”

  “A firm hand.”

  Ross choked on his champagne. Hawthorne patted him on the back, then resumed his attention on the crowd.

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  He’d not seen her for five years, but his memory had imprinted the vision of her in his mind. At night he would wake wanting to touch her, but every time he opened his eyes, he found himself reaching into thin air. On the occasions he was not alone, the women in his bed satisfied physical needs but left his soul unfulfilled.

  A young woman drew near. Pale blue eyes cast a hungry glance over him before turning their attention on Ross. She was pretty enough—porcelain skin and fine cheekbones—delicate features surrounded by a cascade of blonde ringlets. Her gown fitted her form perfectly, showing just the right amount of flesh, modesty with a small promise of temptation as her lace tuck caressed the swell of her breasts. Her jewelry was the right level of ostentation, enough to broadcast the prospect of a dowry but not so much as to stray into vulgarity.

  In short, she looked like every other young lady in the room, bearing the uniform of the huntress eager to tempt a suitor with her looks, her adherence to etiquette, and her dowry.

  Which boiled down to nothing more than trinkets, manners, and cash.

  “Miss de Grecy, what a pleasure!” Ross’s demeanor changed from predatory seducer to gallant suitor. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  “I believe we’re engaged for the first dance, sir.”

  “I’ve thought of nothing else all day,” Ross said.

  She issued a coy smile before retreating.

  “Good Lord, Ross,” Hawthorne said. “Has the prospect of matrimony turned you into a simpering fool?”

  Ross laughed. “Of course not, but do you think these fine creatures would appreciate our more sophisticated talents? A man purchases a wife solely to secure an heir.”

  “You’re going to offer for that bland de Grecy girl?”

  “Why not? Her dowry would make a fitting investment into my business if Viscount de Grecy is willing to part with it.”

  “Then you might argue it’s the viscount who makes the purchase, and you’re the commodity.”

  “And a willing commodity I’d be, Hawthorne. I only need find a similarly bland partner for you.”

  “I’m not looking for a wife.”

  “A man must marry,” Ross said. “I’d introduce you to Miss de Grecy’s friend, but she’s too eccentric, even for your tastes.” He nodded toward the French windows. “There she is now. An intriguing creature, but there’s something about her I find rather unsettling.”

  Hawthorne lifted his head, and the breath caught in his throat.

  Frederica…

  “She looks well enough,” Hawthorne said, the pitch of his voice higher than usual, though Ross didn’t seem to notice.

  “Miss Stanford is her name,” Ross continued. “Half the time, she looks right inside you, and the other half, she stares into the distance as if she’s no longer there. I can’t make her out. I’ve seen her at two parties, and have yet to see her dance. She spends the whole evening sitting at the edge of the room. But you must know her? She lives near your father’s estate.”

  “I know of her,” Hawthorne replied, clenching his hand to dispel the stirring in his groin. “We never mixed in the same circles.”

  The years had turned the intriguing child, his little changeling, into a beautiful woman. She sat in the corner of the room, an other-worldly creature unlike the ladies of Hawthorne’s acquaintance. Most women of his acquaintance fell into two classes: the ladies who hungered for his attention in ballrooms and drawing rooms, and the harlots who offered their attentions for a coin, in bedrooms and boudoirs. But Frederica was neither. In Hawthorne’s eyes, she would never fit into any form of society. Her uniqueness set her apart.

  Ross nudged him. “See her gloves? Even in hot weather she wears them. I’ve never once seen her remove them. I fancy lodging a wager at White’s. What do you say? Ten guineas to the first man who persuades her to take them off?”

  “Leave her alone,” Hawthorne growled.

  Ross laughed good-naturedly. “So speaks the magistrate.”

  “Perhaps she’s just cold, Ross.”

  “Then why is she sitting by the door? You can see her headdress moving in the draught.”

  She looked uncomfortable in her surroundings. Her gaze darted in every direction, most often directed toward the door. Without thinking, he crossed the floor, as if she drew him to her.

  Unattached ladies milled about the perimeter, and eager eyes lifted as Hawthorne passed them, but his focus was directed at the lone figure by the French windows.

  Though she sat still, he noticed the change in her stance. She kept her focus on the center of the room, and any casual observer would have seen a young woman watching the dance. But the atmosphere thickened with the spark of tension which preceded a storm, the charge lifting the hairs on Hawthorne’s neck.

  She dipped her chin, and long lashes fluttered as she closed her eyes. Perhaps she thought he’d not see her if she couldn’t see him. He moved toward her slowly and held his breath. One more step and he’d be close enough to touch her.

  She opened her eyes as her head snapped up. His senses were assaulted by the intense, sea-green eyes which had tormented his dreams.

  He paused, transfixed by her stare. Shame warmed his blood, shame at the last time he’d seen her, the day he’d abandoned her on her father’s doorstep.

  He’d won his place at Cambridge, secured his degree, and his position as a magistrate. But the price was too great. The young woman sitting before him had paid with her peace of mind.

  Hawthorne’s future was set. He had wealth, the prospect of an earldom, the pick of heiresses for a wife, and a position in society where he could affect, in a small way, some justice in the world.

&n
bsp; But what about justice for her?

  She smoothed her expression, and her eyes took on a vacant look as if she’d retreated so far into herself, she was no longer in the room.

  But Hawthorne recognized it for what it was. Some animals, when under threat, disguised themselves to blend in with their surroundings, to convince predators they were no longer there.

  She had every cause to believe him a predator.

  He gestured toward the chair beside her. “May I join you?”

  She flinched, but he drew encouragement from her lack of refusal and sat beside her.

  “Are you engaged for the next dance?” he asked.

  She shook her head and resumed her attention on the dance, as if a stranger had sat next to her. But the quickened pace of her breathing told him she knew who he was.

  “Do you not remember me, little changeling?”

  “Little grub,” she corrected.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You called me little grub.”

  “That was my friends.” His shame increased at the memory, of how they’d teased her while he’d pretended not to notice.

  “They’re not here,” he blurted. “You are quite safe. Ed’s up at Oxford, how his father managed to buy his place is beyond me. Roger was packed off to the army. Whereas, Jeffrey…”

  “I feel ill.” She tried to stand, but her legs buckled. He leapt to his feet and caught her. Her warm body trembled in his arms, and the rush of desire to protect her dispelled the lust which had afflicted him the moment he’d spotted her in the ballroom.

  He circled an arm round her waist and led her deeper into the room where a footman stood to attention, a tray of wine glasses in his hand.

  “No!”

  “Hush,” he admonished. “Once you’ve had something to drink, you’ll feel better.”

  “Out!” she cried. “I must get out!” Her body jerked.

  He’d only seen such terror once before, mirrored in the eyes of a fox surrounded by a pack of dogs. As a child, he’d joined one of Father’s hunts and witnessed the kill. The outnumbered animal had screamed in terror at the fate awaiting it.

  A proud Father had bloodied Hawthorne in honor of his first hunt, dipping his fingers into the mangled flesh which had once been a fox before running them along Hawthorne’s cheeks.

  Those marks were no different to the stripes of honor he now wore, his degree and magistracy, which had originated from the suffering of the woman in his arms.

  Taking her hand, he strode toward the French windows and pushed them open. She threw back her head and drew breath, the color returning to her cheeks.

  He lifted a hand to her face, and her skin almost burned him.

  “Good God, feel how hot you are!” he cried. “No wonder you’re distressed. Let me remove your gloves.”

  “No!” She snatched her hand away.

  “I mean you no harm,” he said. “It’s one of the quickest ways to cool the body.”

  She fended him off. “Please go.”

  Had her childhood ordeal completely broken her?

  “Daughter!” A man appeared at the doorway. Frederica released herself from Hawthorne’s grip and ran toward her father, who took her in his arms.

  Frederick Stanford had changed little in five years, save a slight thinning of the hair at the temples. But the love in his voice was exactly the same as it had been the night he’d found her unconscious form on his doorstep.

  “Papa…”

  “Where is Lady Axminster?” Stanford asked. “What good is a chaperone if she leaves her charge to the mercy of the crowd?”

  “Papa, don’t distress yourself. I’m quite well. I just needed to be outside.”

  Stanford’s focus shifted, and he met Hawthorne’s gaze. His eyes radiated anger until recognition glowed in their depths.

  “Viscount Radley, what a pleasure to see you. I must thank you for taking care of my Frederica. I trust she was not too distressed?”

  “Not at all,” Hawthorne said. “She became overheated. It’s easily done. Perhaps she would appreciate a turn about the gardens.”

  Stanford’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded in unspoken gratitude.

  “You’re very kind,” he said.

  Frederica relaxed in her father’s arms, her eyes glowing with trust. If only she might trust Hawthorne as much. But it was not something he should expect. It was a privilege he must earn. And Frederica’s trust was a prize few men would be able to win.

  Father’s words echoed in his mind.

  She’s not his daughter…

  But Stanford loved her nonetheless.

  “I’ve heard much of your exploits at Cambridge,” Stanford said. “And now you’re to be a magistrate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your father must be proud. You must tell me how you intend to dispense justice.”

  Stanford continued to question Hawthorne on his studies and the magistracy. He did not ask the bland, polite questions a mere acquaintance might ask for the purpose of exchanging remarks, but the genuine questions of a man who showed a keen interest in another.

  With their attention diverted away from her, Frederica blossomed like a flower in the sun’s warmth.

  Stanford was a clever man, capable of showing interest in others, yet maintaining his main focus, the restoration of his daughter’s peace of mind.

  At length, Stanford drew her into the conversation, letting her steer her own way, nurturing her confidence until he gave her the chance to exercise it.

  “Frederica has been active in pursuing her accomplishments.”

  She met Hawthorne’s gaze, and he smiled at her.

  “Do you still draw and paint, Miss Stanford?”

  Her lips lifted into a smile of surprise. “You remember?”

  “How could I not? I hear you’re quite the proficient.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Your papa has every reason to be proud of you.”

  Stanford squeezed her hand. “My daughter is the most precious thing I have in the world.”

  “Papa…”

  “I mean it, Rica,” Stanford said before addressing Hawthorne again. “She needs people she can trust. I would count it a great favor if you were to watch over her if ever I am not around. I fear society would treat her ill. She has her grandfather, of course, but Sir Benedict isn’t getting any younger. I would hope for the sake of the friendship between your father and Sir Benedict, that you would treat her as your ward if anything were to happen to me.”

  “It would be my honor, sir,” Hawthorne said.

  “Promise to keep her out of harm’s way, away from rakehells and men who prey on a young woman’s virtue for sport.”

  Frederica laughed, a delicate musical note of merriment. Hawthorne’s blood warmed at the sound. Would that he could hear her laugh every day!

  “Papa, Viscount Radley would find it impossible to keep rakehells at a distance from me, because it would mean he would also need to keep away.”

  She lifted her gaze, and a firebolt of desire jolted through his body. “How many mistresses do you have?”

  “Frederica!” Stanford admonished, but Hawthorne held his hand up. “She has every right to ask. My reputation precedes me.”

  He met her gaze as bravely as he could, bearing his soul to her scrutiny. “Miss Stanford, a man may have a reputation, but one must always search deeper within to fully understand the calling of his heart.”

  She colored under his attention and blinked, breaking the spell between them.

  “Perhaps I should take you home, Rica,” Stanford said.

  “Yes, Papa. I’m a little tired.”

  “I hope we’ll meet again, Viscount Radley.” Stanford held out his hand. “Are you attending de Grecy’s house party?”

  “I believe so.” Stanford bowed and ushered his daughter inside.

  Yes, Stanford was right, danger lurked in every corner of society, and Frederica was exposed to it. Unscrupulous men would take adva
ntage of her.

  But Hawthorne was also in danger, very great danger of falling in love with Frederica Stanford.

  Chapter Five

  Dawn had long since broken, but the sun had yet to penetrate through the clouds. Frederica skipped through the dew-soaked grass and headed toward the oak tree at the opposite side of the field. She’d spotted it from the carriage on the journey to de Grecy’s estate. Its distinctive silhouette had attracted her eye. She clutched the posy of wild flowers in her hand. Infinitely preferable to the orchids from de Grecy’s hothouse, the untamed blooms would brighten up her bedchamber.

  The rainfall, which spattered against her skin when she left the house, had grown heavier. By the time she returned, she’d be soaked, the walk back would take at least half an hour. Papa would admonish her for venturing out alone, and Lady Axminster would spend the rest of the day lecturing her on proper decorum. But, after only one day at the house party, Frederica was in need of fresh air to cure her suffocation from the company of idle creatures whose self-worth was defined by their membership at Almack’s.

  She froze at a deep moan coming from the direction of the tree.

  “Dammit!” someone cursed, followed by a splashing sound.

  As she drew close to the source of the noise, she spotted a huge horse, saddled and without a rider, standing beside the tree.

  “Curse you, animal!” he said, then muttered further obscenities.

  A deep ditch ran behind the tree, and Frederica moved toward the edge and looked over.

  A man sat at the bottom.

  “Hello there!” she said.

  He lifted his head, and her stomach flipped. Deep chocolate eyes looked back at her, the intensity of their gaze darkened with pain.

  Hawthorne Stiles.

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “I’d have thought that was obvious,” he growled. “Bloody animal threw me.”

  She crouched and held out her hand. “Let me help you out. Can you stand?”