by Royal, Emily
“Did Grandpapa not argue on my behalf? Did he also view me as worthless?”
She may be a survivor, but vulnerability and pain radiated from her voice.
“No, of course not. Your grandfather loved you very much, little changeling.” She flinched at his pet name for her.
“Then why?”
“It was my decision.”
“Did you bully him as you do everyone else? Did you think so little of him?”
“No.” He sighed. “It was a matter of honor.”
“Honor? In what way do you honor him? I…” She broke off and sat back in her chair.
“Frederica…”
“I say!” a new voice cried. “Breakfast sounds rather lively this morning!”
Of all the guests to interrupt them, it had to be Roderick bloody Markham.
“Miss Stanford, permit me to replenish your plate. You must maintain your strength for today’s excursion. Or perhaps you’d let me teach you how to play at cards instead? We can put that intelligence of yours to good use.”
She smiled. “Lord Markham, I’m capable of serving my own breakfast.”
“I’m sure you are, Miss Stanford, but your humble servant would be honored to assist you. You’ve just as much right to be treated as a lady as the other guests here. I’m sure Stiles would agree.” Throwing Hawthorne a smile of triumph, Markham sat beside her.
“Of course, I agree,” Hawthorne said. “Miss Stanford is my guest as much as the rest of you.” He lifted his teacup to his mouth and took a sip. The liquid caught in his throat, and he coughed.
Markham winked at Frederica. “I believe our honored friend struggles to convince himself of the credibility of his last statement.”
She stifled a giggle and accepted the plate he pushed in front of her and began eating with relish. Though it was good to see her eating, the fact it was due to Markham’s attention, stuck in Hawthorne’s chest.
How could she not see what he was doing? Markham’s gallantry came from a desire to irritate Hawthorne.
And other desires…
Dear God, did she not understand the danger?
One by one, the other guests joined them until the table was full. Clara sat beside him, as usual, but other than casting an acidic glance their way, Frederica paid him no more attention. His little changeling who he’d once been so assured of being bound to him, was severing the link and forging a new bond with the man who flattered and amused her.
Not even Clara’s conversation, nor her captivating body, could stem the tide of dread. Hawthorne’s instinct told him tragedy loomed on the horizon.
Chapter Ten
To Hawthorne’s dismay, Frederica did not take part in the excursion in the grounds. Instead, she stayed inside, keeping company with Markham along with Markham’s two friends and their wives. Markham’s friends, James Spencer and Charles Elliott, were cut from the same moral cloth as Markham himself. They were both married, but a rake was a rake. James had a mistress in London, and Charles was such a frequent patron to one of the seedier bawdy houses, that the proprietress had assigned him his own room and was known to make house calls even when his wife was at home.
While under Hawthorne’s roof, they wouldn’t dare break the rules of decency. With luck, Stanford would arrive soon after concluding his business, and Hawthorne could be assured that at least one person on his estate, other than himself, cared for Frederica’s well-being.
Overnight, a further layer of snow had covered the landscape. Her creative nature would appreciate the contrast in colors outside. But she was not there to share his joy.
After ushering the guests into the hall where mulled wine awaited them, Hawthorne went in search of her. Laughter echoed from the drawing room. Inside, James Spencer and Charles Elliott sat beside each other, smoking. Their wives and Markham were nowhere to be seen. Frederica sat near the window holding a glass, full almost to the brim with a dark red liquid.
James took a long pull from his cigar, then pursed his lips. A puff of smoke burst from his mouth in a perfect ring.
Frederica laughed. “An unbroken circle, I win!”
“Then I must take another finger.” Charles lifted his glass. “You’re too good at this, Miss Stanford. You’ll drink me under the table.”
She giggled and took a gulp from her glass.
Anger boiled inside Hawthorne, and he strode into the room. “Stop!”
The men flinched and straightened their backs as James stubbed out his cigar.
Frederica seemed unperturbed by Hawthorne’s entrance, and the reason was obvious. She lolled forward.
Charles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I say, Hawthorne, old chap…”
“Go find your wife,” Hawthorne hissed.
“Come on, Charlie,” James grumbled. He helped his friend up, and they moved toward the door.
Frederica struggled to her feet, but Hawthorne blocked her path.
“You’re not going anywhere in your state.”
“Let me pass.”
“Not until I’ve said my piece.”
“Not content enough with controlling my fortune, you seek to control my person, too?”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said, ignoring the surge in his groin at the feel of her body in his grasp.
“What are you doing?” she slurred.
“Trying to instill some sense into you. What on earth are you doing drinking with those men? You shouldn’t be with them at all!”
“Why, because they’re above me in station?”
“For one thing, yes.”
Her eyes darkened at his words, her inebriation doing nothing to temper the anger in their expression.
“Haven’t you done enough to me?” she asked.
“Not nearly enough,” he said. “Your behavior is reprehensible, Frederica. If I were your father, I’d give you a bloody good thrashing!”
“Then why don’t you!” she cried. “Why don’t you beat me like an errant servant who seeks to fraternize with her betters?”
She drew back her hand to strike him, but he caught her wrist and pulled her to him. Her body collided with his, but instead of breaking free, she reached up and took his arms.
“Why?” she whimpered. Her knuckles whitened as she dug her fingernails into the material of his jacket.
“Since Grandpapa died, it’s as if I’m nothing to you,” she choked. “Why do you hate me so much?”
“Oh, Frederica.” He stroked her hair, closing his eyes as his fingers curled through the silken strands. He dipped his head, and breathed the scent of her hair—the aroma of nature, freshly cut grass, and lavender.
His little changeling. His, and nobody else’s.
“I could never hate you,” he whispered.
She tilted her head and looked up at him. His senses were assaulted by a clear, vivid green.
“Hawthorne…”
Her pupils dilated, and she parted her lips.
“Little changeling,” he whispered, “my own little changeling…”
He lowered his mouth to hers, tasting the port on her lips, and another taste. Despair—from her belief she had no worth.
But Hawthorne valued her more than the rest of the world. With his tongue, he teased her lips in a gentle plea. She granted him entrance, and her fingers tightened around his arms.
She belonged to him. Not to Stanford, the man who’d brought her up, who believed he was her father, nor to the creature who’d spawned her. Hawthorne wanted her like no other woman before. Clara might have pleasured his body, but the woman in his arms, here and now, was the only one who could satisfy the needs of his soul.
A bolt of fire coursed through him as base desire overcame rational thought as their kiss deepened.
He slipped his hand inside her gown. A cry escaped him at her body’s reaction. Her nipple hardened, pressing insistently against his palm.
Dear God! What was he doing taking advantage of her, just like he’d accused that bastard, Markham?
; She was worth more than a quick moment of gratification on the drawing room floor. Fighting his instinct to claim her, he broke the kiss, and pushed her away.
“God forgive me, Frederica, I mean, Miss Stanford. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Hurt and rejection glistened in her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hand and drew a sharp breath.
“You should go to your chamber and rest,” he said. “Sleep off the drink.”
He reached for her, but she sidestepped him and moved to the door.
“Frederica, let me explain.”
“Don’t touch me!” She ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
There was no point in following her, so he rang the bell for the footman. After issuing orders to send Mrs. Briggs to tend to Miss Stanford, he sat in the chair she had occupied and took her glass and lifted it up, watching as the sunlight caught the facets in the crystal, reflecting the deep burgundy liquid. A red stain smeared across the rim, and he lifted it to his mouth, closing his eyes when his lips touched the glass in the very same place where her own had been.
The door opened, and the blonde-haired, elegantly-attired figure of Roderick Markham sauntered in, brandishing a bottle of port.
Markham’s face fell. “What are you doing in here, Stiles?”
“I rather think I should ask that of you.” Hawthorne nodded to the bottle. “Where did you find that?”
“You’re turning into a miser,” Markham said. “A good port like this is wasted on you.”
“But not on you and your friends?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve frightened them away.”
“They had no right to be here,” Hawthorne said. “Not with her.”
Recognition glowed in Markham’s eyes. “Aha! The little bird. It defeats me what the attraction is, but an earl must have his little idiosyncrasies, I suppose.”
Hawthorne curled his hand into a fist, fighting the urge to smash it into the smug expression of the man opposite.
“What game are you playing with those friends of yours, Markham?”
Markham lifted the bottle of port to his lips and took a swig. “A drinking game, Stiles. Miss Stanford was predicting James’s ability to blow a perfect smoke ring. If she guessed correctly, we take a finger of port. If not, she did. Hence the need for further supplies.”
“Christ, Markham, a lady hasn’t the capacity for alcohol. You shouldn’t be playing boyhood drinking games with her!”
“Lady, indeed! Her father runs the shop which sells this stuff.”
“What about her reputation?”
Markham snorted. “Why should it matter to you?”
“While she’s under my roof, I’m responsible for her,” Hawthorne said. “She’s not like the women you seek to seduce.”
“That she’s not,” Markham sneered. “She’s a wild creature, but tempting, nonetheless.”
“Leave her alone.”
Markham’s smile broadened. “Don’t tell me Earl Stiles has taken a fancy to a local peasant.”
“Of course not.” Hawthorne turned his head away to conceal his expression.
“I believe the little tart has found herself a protector.”
“Don’t call her that,” Hawthorne growled.
“Why not?” Markham asked. “Doubtless she’s opened her legs for more men than she’s opened her lips for wine bottles. Her sort usually begs for it by the time they’ve left the schoolroom.”
“Don’t make me throw you out, Markham.”
Markham laughed. “Let me guess, you’ve already had her!”
Hawthorne leapt to his feet. “Why you…”
“I say, Rodders,” a voice said, “we’ve been looking for you.”
James’s head appeared round the door. “Where’s our bird of paradise gone?”
Markham held out the bottle to Hawthorne, smiling, his eyes pale and cold. “Forgive me, Stiles. I believe this is yours.”
Hawthorne shook his head and gritted his teeth to maintain control. “You’re welcome to it.”
“Spoken like the host who’s willing to share his possessions with his guests. Come on, James, time to enjoy that which Stiles’s hospitality has to offer.”
Hawthorne could still hear Markham’s chuckles even after he left the room.
Chapter Eleven
An owl screeched outside, and Frederica froze. But all the windows were closed, and there was no risk of the bird getting inside.
She held her book to her breast as if to defend it against anyone who might accost her.
She’d needed something to read to ease the tension of the evening, and where better to find relief than Hawthorne’s library?
Her skin tightened at the memory of his lips on hers. His hands were as commanding as she’d always dreamed, claiming her body as his tongue conquered her mouth. But he had withdrawn, disgust altering his expression as he pushed her away. She’d fled to her room, seeking solace.
He’d magnified her shame by sending his housekeeper to her chamber with a dish of broth to ensure she took her supper away from the rest of the guests. In the servants’ quarters, where she belonged.
A sneeze racked her body. All day, her head had felt thick and muffled, as if she were being held under water, hot one minute, then cold the next.
“Hey! Wait, little bird.” James appeared and blocked her path. “Aren’t you joining us for dinner?”
“I’m going to my chamber.”
He took her hand. “Is that an invitation?”
Laughing, she tried to shake him off. “Of course not!”
“Nevertheless, I’ll take it as such, little bird.”
He pushed her back until her body collided with the wall. Teeth gleaming, he thrust his face close.
“No!”
“Just one kiss,” he slurred, “just for me.”
“What about your wife?”
“What would I want with that miserable shrew when such a delectable morsel is in my path? If you’re seeking a protector, I’m more than happy to oblige. I’d treat you like a princess.”
She struggled, but he held her firmly in place. He drew ever closer, ready to claim her mouth.
“Hey!” a voice roared.
A hand appeared and gripped his shoulder. He jerked back and released her.
“How dare you!” Hawthorne bellowed. A fist crashed into James’s face, culminating in an explosion of blood and spittle.
Hawthorne stood before them, body vibrating with anger, his broad frame dominating her vision. His eyes were dark, mouth set in a hard line, nostrils flared. Murder raged in his expression, and she cringed.
James seemed to wither under the power of Hawthorne’s gaze.
“Leave,” Hawthorne said. “You’re no longer welcome in my home.”
“I say, old chap, it’s just a bit of fun,” James’s voice barely concealed the tremor in his tone. “What say we call it quits? After all, you’ve given me a damn good shiner…”
“I said get out!” Hawthorne’s jaw bulged with tension. “Take your wife and go, before I run you off the grounds myself.”
James opened his mouth to respond but closed it again and retreated.
After his footsteps had faded, Frederica drew in a deep breath. Her head throbbed so loudly, Hawthorne must be able to hear it. She lowered her gaze and backed away.
“Don’t move.”
She froze at his command.
“I wish to return to my…”
“I said, don’t move.” He inched close to her. “What the devil are you playing at?”
“Nothing, I…”
“Don’t interrupt! What on earth possessed you to flaunt yourself like a harlot? I thought you possessed a shred of intelligence.”
She’d never seen him so angry. Her body recoiled at the force of his voice, but he did not relent.
“To say I’m disappointed in you would be an understatement. I’m disgusted. If I were your father…”
“But you’re not!” she cried. �
�You’ve no right to…”
“I’ve every right!” he roared. “When under my roof, you follow my rules. If your father learned of your behavior, he’d be heartbroken.”
“What would you know of how he feels?”
“It matters not,” he said. “He’ll be here later. I was coming to tell you that. Once he arrives, you’re no longer my problem.”
“Your problem?”
He sighed. “I’ll tell him to take you home. This isn’t the place for you.”
“Why? Because I’m beneath you?” she cried. “Is that why you’re so angry, because I’m fraternizing with your guests when you’d rather I sat in the corner?”
A wave of nausea ripped through her, and she caught her breath.
“I feel sick.”
“Then go to your chamber,” Hawthorne said. “I’ll send Mrs. Briggs to take care of you, again.”
She turned her back on him and stumbled away.
*
Not long after she collapsed in a chair in her chamber, Jenny burst into the room.
“Oh, miss, are you ill again?” She placed her hand on Frederica’s arm, the unashamed act of kindness drawing forth the tears Frederica had been able to hold back under Hawthorne’s verbal onslaught.
She gestured to the empty fireplace. “Shall I light the fire for you, miss? It’s freezing outside, and Mrs. Briggs said there’s a storm brewing.”
What was she doing? Lounging about feeling sorry for herself while this thin child whose hands were already chapped from a life in service offered to tend to her.
“No, Jenny, don’t trouble yourself. I can make do with a blanket.”
Before Frederica could object, the maid plucked a blanket from the bed and placed it over her lap.
“Oh, miss!” Jenny exclaimed. “Begging your pardon for being so forward, but is it your grandfather you’re so upset about?”
“My grandfather?”
“Yes, I heard how Sir Benedict died in the master’s study after they’d had words.”
“Words?”
“Yes, miss. He was ever so upset about something.”
Dear Lord! What did she mean? Had Grandpapa argued with Hawthorne just before his death? Had it been about Hawthorne’s decision to reduce her fortune? A cold hand clutched at her insides. Had their argument brought about Grandpapa’s death?
