by Royal, Emily
Stanford drew her into his arms.
“Hush, sweet one. Papa’s here.”
“The room, the door. They’re closing in on me!”
Stanford stroked her hair. “Come back to your Papa, dearest.”
A maidservant appeared next to Hawthorne, rubbing her hands against the cold.
“What’s happening, sir? I heard a scream. Is someone ill?”
Another cry rang out, and the maidservant shrank back. “That’s no illness. I know madness when I hear it.”
Hawthorne grasped her arm. “It’s not madness.”
The voice wailed again. “The door, the birds!”
“Is she lacking in wits?” the maid asked. “It’s Miss Stanford, isn’t it? I’ve heard tell…”
“Keep your tales to yourself,” he snarled, “and I’ll thank you not to divulge anything of what you’ve seen.”
The maid’s expression grew sly. “What’s my silence worth?”
Fueled by a need to protect his little changeling, he reached out and took the maid’s throat. The greed left her eyes, replaced by terror.
“Breathe a word about this and I’ll have you dismissed.
“My family…” she choked, “I can’t, they’ll starve…”
“Then promise me you’ll be silent,” he said. “Or I’ll break your neck.”
Her body trembled, and she nodded. “I promise.”
“Good. Now go.”
He released her, and she scuttled into the darkness, sniffing.
Hawthorne looked at his hands, hands meant to dispense justice, not terror. What had come over him?
An overwhelming need to protect her.
Her father rocked her to and fro as one might soothe a fevered infant.
“There, sweet one. All over!”
“Papa,” she said, her voice deepening as the terror of her nightmare loosened her throat. “Oh, Papa, I’m sorry! I had the dream again. Does anyone know? Did they hear?”
“No, my love.”
“What about Lady Axminster?”
“Lady Axminster is deafer than a brick and half as intelligent. Why do you think I chose her as your chaperone?”
Stanford picked her up in his arms and carried her to bed. A ripple of emotion threaded through Hawthorne’s body. The need to ease her pain burned through him, for he was responsible for her nightmares.
“Forgive me, Papa,” she said, her voice muffled against her father’s chest as he lowered her to the mattress.
“It’s not your fault.”
Stanford looked up, and his gaze focused on Hawthorne in the doorway. A warning in the older man’s eyes told Hawthorne to keep his distance.
Her body stilled, and she closed her eyes.
“Sleep now,” Stanford whispered.
He placed a kiss on her head and blinked, and a tear slid down his cheek.
Hawthorne pushed the door open more fully and slipped inside the chamber. Stanford shook his head.
“Hush. You mustn’t wake her.”
“Can’t I help?” Hawthorne asked.
“I’ll be fine. She should sleep for the rest of the night, but I’ll stay with her for a while until she’s settled.”
“Let me,” Hawthorne said. “You look exhausted.”
“I’ve done this before,” Stanford replied. “I cannot risk her waking and seeing you. It would destroy her if she knew an outsider witnessed this.”
She shifted her arms, revealing a wrist. Hawthorne’s breath caught at the scars. Absent-mindedly, Stanford caressed her skin as if to soothe them away.
“Her wrists…”
“Aye,” Stanford said. “She was injured during her ordeal—you remember? Just before you left for Cambridge. My brave child fought against the ropes those gypsies bound her with and broke free.”
“Gypsies?”
“She’s stronger than she looks,” Stanford continued. “She made it all the way home before collapsing. Her physical scars will never completely heal. But I would hope that, in time, her invisible scars will fade and her peace of mind will be restored.” He set his mouth into a grim line. “I’ll do everything in my power to keep her safe. Society would have her committed to Bedlam if they knew.”
Frederica murmured in her sleep, and Hawthorne moved closer, compelled by the need to comfort her.
“Don’t come any closer,” Stanford said, his eyes pleading.
He retreated to the door, but before he left the room, he turned and bowed. “Sir, what you asked me at the ball, to take care of her. It would be my honor.”
“Thank you.”
Hawthorne didn’t deserve Stanford’s gratitude, but if he could protect his little changeling from herself as well as society, he could atone for the part he’d played in her destruction.
*
“Of course, it’s nothing compared to the Duke of Markham’s aviary in London, but Papa’s very proud of it.”
Alice linked her arm through Frederica’s and led her further into the aviary toward a display of brightly colored flowers.
The best cure for a weakness of the mind was to face one’s fears. Hadn’t she told Samson that, yesterday? In the aviary, in the company of the other guests, Frederica could test her resolve. The occasional flap of wings clenched at her stomach, but the chatter of the guests obliterated the sounds of the birds of paradise which resided there.
“What do you think?” Alice said. “Wasn’t I right about the colors? You wouldn’t find flowers such as this in the woodlands.”
“But they’re brought about by mother nature.”
“Mother nature needs a little help,” Alice said. “Or at the very least, she must be trained to show herself in the best light, how society wants her to be.”
“Should everything adapt itself to conform with society?”
“Good gracious, Frederica!” Alice laughed. “But I suppose you can be forgiven considering your background.”
“But you must admit, Miss de Grecy, that your friend is right.”
A clear baritone resonated within Frederica’s bones. Together with the flutter of wings, it resurrected a long-hidden memory of dark eyes full of fear and concern, and of strong arms carrying her home across the fields, before abandoning her on the ground.
“Viscount Radley!” Alice’s voice lifted a tone, her body subtly changing into the stance of female availability and desperation.
“Society may give mankind a structure within which they must operate,” Hawthorne said, “but society must also accept that which is different.”
He moved closer to Frederica. “Are you well, Miss Stanford?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Miss de Grecy!” a voice called out from across the aviary.
“Tend to your guests, Miss de Grecy,” Hawthorne said. “Your friend is in safe hands with me.”
As Alice retreated, Hawthorne held out his arm. Frederica took it, and he placed his hand over hers and squeezed her fingers.
“Miss Stanford,” he said brightly, “perhaps you’d be so kind as to show me the flowers you were discussing so animatedly with Miss de Grecy.”
His grip tightened, and a thrill of possession coursed through her blood, as if his strong, muscular frame would safeguard her from her nightmares, if only she’d surrender to him.
He stopped beside an orchid. “Such an extraordinary looking object,” he said. “By all accounts, difficult to cultivate in England. What purpose does it serve here, do you think?”
“Other than feeding the vanities of the idle rich who are too foolish to appreciate the natural world?”
“Aren’t flowers the symbol of love?” he asked. “They’re the means by which the plant attracts the instruments of procreation. The bee gathers the nectar and moves from plant to plant, spreading pollen so the plant can reproduce.”
Her cheeks warmed at his words. “Should you be speaking of such intimate topics with a woman?”
He squeezed her hand again. “My little changeling is no ordinary woman. And we were s
peaking of such matters during our excursion outdoors, yesterday.”
“I don’t appreciate the imprisonment of living things which have been removed from their natural habitat. No creature should be incarcerated or confined.”
“Are you speaking of yourself?” he asked.
“Perhaps.”
A bird flew in front of her, and she stiffened at the memory of her nightmare. A warm hand squeezed her fingers, and he steered her toward a different plant, a single stem sprouting from a number of spike-shaped leaves, covered in a cluster of flowers.
“According to the label, it’s called a hyacinth,” he said. “What do you think of the color, Miss Stanford? Would it be easy to replicate in paint?”
“Such a gaudy shade of purple is easy to reproduce,” she said. “A simple mixture of red and blue would suffice, though at the edges of the petals, the blue becomes more prominent.” She sighed. “Alice wants me to paint some of them for her, but where’s the challenge in something so easy? What are hothouse flowers compared to grasses? The subtle hues of green and brown which adorn the countryside are ignored by society. They would only appreciate the green if it were gone.”
A shadow passed overhead, followed by another, and she froze, swallowing to battle the wall of fear which swelled inside her.
“Are you well, Miss Stanford?”
“I can’t breathe…” A ball of fear knotted in her stomach, and she closed her eyes.
A number of voices drew near, exclaiming with enthusiasm.
“Oh, what pretty colors!”
“Did you see it fly past?”
“I say! What’s wrong with her?”
Hawthorne’s arm tightened around her waist, and he pulled her outside, crossing the pathway in swift, confident footsteps. “That’s better,” he whispered.
His eyes shimmered with concern and understanding. Her cheeks warmed with shame. The man she worshipped had witnessed her spell of madness.
“You became overheated, as did I,” he said brightly. “I find glasshouses unbearably stuffy. Personally, I loathe a confined space. I cannot understand anyone who’d rather be indoors on a day such as this.”
She drew a deep breath, the fresh air dissipating her panic.
“I see we are of one mind, Miss Stanford.”
Footsteps approached as the other guests joined them.
“Good Lord, Miss Stanford!” Lady Axminster’s sharp tones cut through the air.
“Rica?” Papa’s concerned face came into view.
“What’s going on?” Alice appeared beside her. “Are you all right, Frederica?”
“Of course she is!” Hawthorne’s voice dominated the others. “It’s unpleasantly hot in there, and I was most anxious for Miss Stanford’s opinion on the flowers outside and how their colors compare to your orchids.”
He squeezed her hand. “Isn’t that right, Miss Stanford?”
“I–I suppose so,” she stammered.
He steered her toward Papa, who took her arm.
“Thank you, Viscount Radley,” Papa said. “I’m indebted to you.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” Hawthorne leaned forward, and his breath caressed the skin of Frederica’s neck. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “My little changeling will always be safe with me.”
She lifted her head to answer, but he’d already moved away.
“Viscount Radley!” a voice cried out from the direction of the house, and a groomsman came into view, waving a piece of paper.
Hawthorne strode toward him, grasped the note, and tore it open. His body stiffened, his mouth set into a hard line. His eyes turned almost black, and he cast a quick glance at Frederica. Anger and regret glittered in their depths, then he closed his eyes, blinking to clear the emotion. Opening them again, his face showed the same impassive expression he bestowed on society.
He returned the note to the groom whose eyes widened as he glanced at it. He delivered a bow.
“I–I’m sorry for your loss, Viscount Radley. Forgive me, I mean, Earl Stiles. You’ll want your carriage, I assume?”
“Yes,” Hawthorne said, his voice strained, the words forced through gritted teeth. “I’ll need to leave immediately.”
He turned to their hostess. “Lady de Grecy, forgive me, I must return home.” He bowed, then crossed the lawn in quick, purposeful strides.
So, Hawthorne’s father was dead. The only link between Frederica and Hawthorne was broken, the friendship between Grandpapa and the old earl. Doubtless, he’d now want nothing more to do with her.
*
As she reached the landing at the top of the stairs on her way to supper, Frederica collided with a solid wall of muscle. She drew back as long fingers curled round her wrist. She looked up into his eyes. A small glimmer of pain lay beneath the veneer of the cold aristocrat.
“My…my lord,” she said. “I mean, Earl Stiles.”
His jaw tightened at her formality with him.
“I thought you had returned to Radley Hall.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
He appeared carved from marble, cold, passionless, and impenetrable.
“Please accept my condolences on the loss of your father,” she said.
He remained unmoving.
“Your father was a good man…”
“Spare me the witless speech of a lady, madam. Tomorrow I’ll suffer condolences and empty words, but I thought you better than that.” He loosened his grip and sighed. “A man doesn’t feel the sorrow a woman harbors.”
“I understand,” she said quietly. “I never knew my mother. You and I—we have—had our fathers to guide us. Papa is everything to me. If I lost him, it would rip my heart out.”
Understanding the grief he needed to hide for the sake of proprietary, she took his hand.
“I know you must be strong,” she said. “But a beloved parent deserves to be remembered and grieved.”
His mouth tightened.
“I shall grieve,” she said. “On your behalf.”
“Oh, little changeling,” he whispered. “You understand.” He coaxed her closer until their lips met. “Only you…” he whispered.
Longing coursed through her body as his lips brushed against her mouth. She let out a soft cry, overwhelmed by feelings.
“Frederica …”
His tongue traced the seam of her lips and gently probed.
She granted his wish, opening up to him. Her Hawthorne, her perfect partner…
He wanted her.
What was she thinking? He was too far above her in station to ever view her as anything more than an object of lust. She could never subject herself to that. Not from him.
“Forgive me.” She stepped back. “I should not have kissed you.”
“Frederica, I…”
She would not willingly give in to her desires. Better to love him from a distance, to wonder what might be, than to give herself to him only to be cast aside when he grew weary of her. Ignoring his pleading tone and beautiful eyes, she fled.
Chapter Seven
Hawthorne set his glass on the desk and shook his head.
“It cannot be true.”
Sir Benedict stubbed out his cigar. “Surely you must have had your suspicions. Frederica looks nothing like Stanford.”
“Father said she wasn’t his daughter, but I hadn’t known Eleanor wasn’t her mother. That means not even you are related to her.”
Hawthorne had almost finished going through Father’s papers. There was just one last bundle to review, the bundle Sir Benedict had brought in this morning.
He picked up a document covered in elegant handwriting containing both Father’s name and Frederica’s.
“What’s this?”
“It’s what it says,” Sir Benedict said. “A promissory note.”
“But it notes Father’s intention to give her five thousand on the occasion of her marriage.”
A cold hand clutched a
t his insides. There was only one reason Father would pledge such a large sum of money on a young girl.
“Don’t even think it, young man,” Sir Benedict admonished. “Your father merely felt a sense of obligation toward Frederica’s natural mother.”
“Why?”
“The girl died in his care. She was a cousin of Mrs. White’s.”
“Father’s old housekeeper?”
Sir Benedict nodded. “Read on, my boy. You’ll find a letter from Mrs. White. But I cannot bear to speak of it aloud.”
Hawthorne pulled out the letter, written in the poorly-fashioned script of a servant. The heartfelt words spoke of a young woman who had been driven to insanity by her ruination.
The last line chilled his blood as he read the name of the man who had caused such destruction, Frederica’s natural father.
“Ye Gods…”
He curled his fingers into a fist, the paper crackling in his grip, and dropped the letter as if it burned his skin.
“Does Stanford know?”
“No,” the old man said. “He believes she’s his daughter. Your father and I agreed to maintain the deception.”
“Why?” Hawthorne exclaimed. “You deceived a respectable man into believing her to be his, and have been lying to him for nineteen years! Not only that, you’ve deceived yourself. She’s not your granddaughter. What you’ve done is unlawful.”
“There speaks the magistrate,” Sir Benedict scoffed. “But what of the compassionate man I’ve grown to admire, the man who would champion the cause of justice, irrespective of the law of the land?”
“Stanford loved his wife to distraction,” Hawthorne said. “You’ve betrayed that love.”
The door opened to reveal a footman.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, your solicitor has arrived.”
Hawthorne pinched the bridge of his nose to dispel the ache in his head. “Thank you, Watson.”
“Is everything all right, sir?” Concern etched the servant’s face, and he cast a glance at Sir Benedict. “I heard raised voices.”
“Of course,” Hawthorne barked. “Now, get out.”
After the door closed, Sir Benedict raised his head, his amber eyes meeting Hawthorne’s gaze.
“I loved my daughter more than life itself,” he said, pain hoarsening his voice. “I never believed a man would love her more until Stanford came asking for her hand.”
