by Royal, Emily
He rose, and Papa followed suit. Frederica pushed her chair aside, but Papa held up his hand. “No, Rica, stay there and rest.”
“Good day, Miss Stanford.” The doctor bowed.
Papa shook his hand. “I cannot thank you enough, Doctor McIver.”
“I can’t take all the credit, Mr. Stanford. Earl Stiles is very persuasive when intent on having his way.”
The door closed behind them, and their voices faded into the distance.
Frederica resumed her attention on her sketchbook and flicked through it. She stopped after the first few pages and ran her fingertip across the outline of a sketch. Over the years, the edge of the paper had frayed, more so than any other page in her book.
Even after five years, the likeness wrenched her heart. The features had matured, the face filling out with a masculinity which came when a boy turned into a man. But the eyes were the same—the dark intensity which broke through her defenses no matter how impenetrable a barrier she’d formed around herself.
Sighing, she snapped the sketchbook shut and set it aside.
The dark features and brooding gaze of the man in the sketch were in direct contrast to the golden features and clear blue eyes of Roderick Markham. Her friend.
No, not her friend, but her brother. And as soon as the weather grew warmer, she would pay him a visit.
*
The gray stone building of the ducal residence seemed to swallow the sunlight.
As Frederica approached the main doors, her nerves battled with her resolve. What harm could come from her visit? If Roderick were not there, she would leave her card and return home.
He was her friend. She would reassure him she wanted neither inheritance nor recognition, only friendship. She had no wish to see his father, the duke.
Her father. The man who had taken a woman unwilling.
But what made the duke different to other aristocrats? Even Hawthorne had mistresses, and Frederica had seen him firsthand taking liberties with Lady Swainson in the woods. Liberties Frederica willingly offered herself, before her conscience had intervened.
The door opened to reveal a liveried footman. His stance exuded contempt from the tips of his polished shoes to the top of his powdered wig. Gold brocade adorned his jacket, the product of many hours of hard labor of young girls like Jenny.
His jacket likely cost more than Frederica’s best evening gown, which had been packed into her trunk, ready for the journey to London.
“I’m here to see Lord Markham.”
“Is he expecting you, miss?”
“No, but we are acquainted.”
The footman shook his head as if the notion of his master being acquainted with someone who arrived on foot, rather than in a carriage, was unsupportable.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Miss Stanford.”
He wrinkled his nose and led her inside.
Overstated elegance bled from every corner of the interior, from the black and white tiles forming an intricate pattern on the floor, to the marble columns flanking each door leading off the main hall.
Only the chandelier brought color to the room, but that was a trick of the sunlight reflecting off the facets of the crystal, sprinkling accents of color onto the floor.
Without taking her cloak, the footman crossed the floor in sharp, impatient strides and ushered her into a parlor.
“Wait here.”
He turned his back and left her alone with the door ajar, as if she couldn’t be trusted in one of the rooms unobserved.
When he arrived, Roderick would likely share a joke with her at the footman’s expense.
She didn’t have to wait long. The approaching footsteps had a determined, if irregular, gait, not the strong strides she’d have expected from Roderick. Perhaps she’d called at too early an hour. The children of dukes could afford to languish in bed.
Bastard she may be, but she was also the child of a duke.
The man who opened the door was not Roderick.
He was tall, a little over six feet, but his physique displayed evidence of a life of decadence. His face was fleshier than the norm, full, sensual lips stained red. His jacket was even more ornately decorated than the footman’s, with thread upon thread of gold glittering in the sunlight.
His body leaned to the left, his weight supported by a cane. His left foot was bandaged, and he bore the expression of a man in pain; pain brought about by a lifetime of port and rich sauces.
The Duke of Markham.
Pale blue eyes regarded her coldly.
“I understand you seek an audience with me, but I fail to understand why you used the front entrance.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re Stanford’s daughter, are you not?” he said, his mouth curled into a sneer. “Why did he send you?”
“He hasn’t sent me.”
“Then he should give you a bloody good thrashing for coming here unsolicited. What do you think you’re about, girl? Barton said you sought an audience with me.”
“No, Y-your Grace,” she stammered. “I came to see Roderick.”
The Duke sputtered and recoiled. “Roderick! How dare you address your betters in such a familiar manner!”
“Is he here?”
“No, he’s not. Get out before I have Barton set the dogs on you. Barton!”
“But…”
“My son won’t pay a penny,” the duke said, “whether you’ve spread your legs for him or not.”
She flinched under his crudeness. Anger boiled within her at the notion that the man in front of her thought nothing of violating young women and casting them aside.
“How dare you!” she cried.
“Get out,” he snarled and pitched forward. The door burst open and the footman appeared.
“Your Grace! What’s happened?”
“Get her out,” Markham spat, “then set the dogs loose. Tell the bloody gamekeeper to earn his salary and run her off. I don’t care how, but get rid of her!”
Markham reeled toward her, his face purple with hatred.
“Stay away from my son. And tell your father that’s the last time I’ll trade with him. A man too weak to control his slut-of-a-daughter is not one I wish to associate with.” He lifted his cane and, with a surprisingly agile motion, swung at her.
She caught a glancing blow on her shoulder and staggered back. Before he could strike her again, she sidestepped him and ran out of the room, his words of hatred ringing in her ears.
Only when the main doors had closed behind her and she’d ran far enough down the drive for the building to be out of sight, did she slow down.
Grandpapa had been right. She was the daughter of a monster.
Chapter Sixteen
The swan glided along the Serpentine toward the piece of bread Frederica had thrown in the water. Unlike the birds which plagued her dreams with their dark feathers and beating wings, the swan posed no threat to her. Perhaps tomorrow, she would return to the park and sketch it, if Papa gave her leave to.
Papa wanted her to seek a wider acquaintance in London, and it was the least she could do after the damage she’d inflicted on his business. Only a few hours after Markham had thrown her out, a message had arrived for Papa declaring that His Grace would purchase his wine from another merchant from now on. Papa had merely patted her head and told her not to worry.
In turn, she’d resolved to accommodate his wishes, if that lessened his troubles.
The swan disappeared downriver. It would be disappointed, for few people were in the park at this hour. Which was why Frederica was there. She endured society parties for Papa’s sake but needed solitude and fresh air to recuperate. Afternoons spent painting in the garden of Lady Axminster’s townhouse only provided limited comfort. Even though the old woman still languished in Bath, which had reduced the number of calling cards being delivered, there was always the risk of visitors invading Frederica’s peace.
Such as Hawthorne Stiles. Alice de Grecy h
ad called for tea yesterday, full of tales of Hawthorne’s success. Now an established magistrate, he presided over hearings, many in his home, and was gaining a reputation for justice.
Why did he have to be so honorable? The whole world admired him. Save, perhaps, Roderick Markham.
As if her thoughts conjured him out of thin air, Roderick’s voice invaded her consciousness.
“Miss Stanford!”
She turned and looked into pale blue eyes and a smiling face.
“Lord Markham?”
“Miss Stanford, you don’t look pleased to see me.”
“Should you be seen with me?” she asked. “Your father…”
He snorted. “What the devil does that old miser have to do with it?”
“I doubt he’d want you to have anything to do with me.”
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Nobody could prevent me from seeing my little bird. We’re good friends, are we not?”
“Friends?”
“Yes,” he said more firmly. “The pater be damned.”
He drew out his pocket watch, then snapped it shut with a sigh. “I must go, little bird. Permit me to call on you tomorrow.”
“I don’t know…”
“Don’t break my heart.” His face creased into an expression of hurt. “And your intelligence should be put to greater use than discussing the niceties of ribbons.”
“Ribbons?”
“Whatever you ladies speak of when gentlemen are absent—lace, finery, or some such. But you’re different, which makes you all the more interesting.”
He was unlike any gentleman she’d met. Perhaps she might trust him enough to reveal the truth? Though he could never acknowledge her publicly as his relative, maybe privately he’d welcome her.
“Very well,” she said. “You may visit me tomorrow.”
He brushed his lips against her hand. His eyes glinted in the morning sun, a momentary darkness pulsing in their depths before he took his leave.
*
“Lord Stiles, your intentions are well meant, but I know what’s best for my daughter.”
Hawthorne reached for the brandy and swirled the amber liquid in the glass. But the spiral motion failed to temper his frustration. “I’m sure you do, Stanford, but I must warn you against letting her run about London unfettered.”
“You still see her as inferior?”
Hawthorne sighed. “No, Stanford, I value your daughter very highly. Which is why I urge you to ensure she takes care in the company of gentlemen. Think of her reputation.”
Red blotches appeared on Stanford’s cheeks. “My daughter would never act inappropriately.”
“Then what is she playing at with Roderick Markham?”
“They enjoy a friendship, nothing more. Why should she be denied friends? The ladies hereabouts shun her, except that vapid de Grecy girl.”
“If she wishes to secure a husband…”
Stanford raised his hand. “I’ll not hear another word on the matter. I brought her to London to widen her acquaintance, not sell her off to the first man who wants her.”
Stanford was completely ignorant of the danger she was in. That bastard Markham was sniffing round her again. Only yesterday, Hawthorne had overheard Markham in White’s boasting of how he’d secured her attention after waiting up for her after a particularly vigorous night at Betty’s bawdyhouse.
Betty’s girls had catered to Hawthorne’s own tastes when he was learning the art of seduction. But Markham was something else; he frittered away his fortune at whorehouses every night. Old Sir Benedict had been right when he’d asked Hawthorne to reduce Frederica’s dowry. A large fortune led to misery and debauchery. Had Roderick Markham’s fortune been less, his character might have been all the better for it.
But Markham’s fortune only served to feed his cruelty. Since boyhood, his sadistic streak had governed his actions. Women shied from his more brutal form of lovemaking. Ever since Hawthorne had thrashed him at Eton for beating a first year, Markham seemed to view him as a challenge, their outward appearance of friendship purely for the benefit of nicety.
Hawthorne drained his glass. The brandy slipped down with ease, the smooth smokiness lingering on his tongue. No wonder Stanford was one of the most sought-after merchants. His liquor was manna from heaven compared to the astringency served up in most townhouses. Some of the best wines were to be found in Stanford’s home.
And not just the best wine. The door opened, and the subject which had plagued Hawthorne’s unconscious thoughts since Christmas entered the drawing room.
“Papa, I…”
Her voice faded into silence.
In the months since he last saw her, she’d gained back some of the weight she’d lost. As their eyes met, the color drained from her face.
He breathed in the aroma of lavender and rose. His body hardened, and he caught his breath with the force of it, crossing his legs to hide the bulge in his breeches. If he stood, his erection would be visible to both Frederica and her father.
“Rica, my love!” Stanford rose to greet his daughter. “Where have you been?”
“In Hyde Park, feeding the swans.”
“You must take care. They’re dangerous creatures. I heard one attacked Lady De Witt’s dog.”
“They’re misunderstood,” she replied. “Lady De Witt is an obnoxious woman with one of those high-pitched voices which cuts through your mind like a knife through butter. Her dog’s just like her, round and vicious. She lets it run wild in the park. Any creature would seek to defend itself against such an onslaught.” She glanced at Hawthorne. “But justice always defers to rank.”
“I beg to differ,” Hawthorne said. “True justice is above such matters.”
“I have yet to see true justice accomplished, Lord Stiles.”
“Rica, my love,” Papa interjected, “I’m sure the earl dispenses justice fairly when in court.” He nodded to Hawthorne. “I’ve heard great things of you, Stiles. I only wish there were more men like you in the magistracy.”
“I encountered much opposition,” Hawthorne said, “but my title secured my position.”
“Which, itself, is unjust,” Frederica said.
“Rica…” Stanford warned.
Hawthorne smiled inwardly. What joy to see her fighting spirit return, even if directed at him!
“Miss Stanford, I admit my position was secured as a result of my title, but I intend to capitalize on it for the good of the world rather than personal gain. Surely you wouldn’t condemn me for my rank if I used it well?”
“Of course not,” she replied. “But you must admit the inequity of your acquiring the position because of your birth. I dare say the clerks in your court, had they been born into the status you enjoy, might have performed equally well in the magistracy.”
Stanford coughed, and she broke off, her cheeks flaming. The room fell silent save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf. The silence expanded, filled by unspoken words of abandonment and bastardry. Shame lingered in her eyes, and she looked away. Her background still pained her.
She’d spoken the truth about the swan. A misunderstood creature, seeking only to protect itself. But her vulnerability lay in her need to be valued and loved. It was that need which reprobates like Roderick Markham took advantage of.
He rose to his feet. “Stanford, may I have a word with your daughter in private?”
“Of course.”
“Papa, Lord Stiles has nothing to say to me which you cannot hear.”
“Let us indulge him nonetheless,” Stanford said.
Before she could respond, her father slipped out of the room and closed the door.
She moved toward a desk beside the window where her sketchbook lay open and flicked through the pages. She ran her finger across the paper as if tracing an outline, then sighed, shut the book, and turned to face him.
“What do you want?” she asked. “Are you here to curtail my behavior again?”
He moved toward he
r. “Of course not, I—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Lord Stiles,” she interrupted. Her illness and the revelation about her past would have floored most ladies, but it seemed to have given her strength, as if the fever inside her had forged a backbone of steel.
She held her head high. “If you wish to instruct Papa on my reputation and my abilities to secure a husband, I suggest you do so more discreetly. Or did you think me hard of hearing?”
There was nothing for it but to tackle the issue head on.
“What are you playing at with Roderick Markham?” he asked. “He’s your bro…”
“Don’t say it!” she cried. “Papa doesn’t know. I wouldn’t want him finding out, least not from you.”
“Then what are you doing? Carousing about London unchaperoned! You’ve been seen with him in Hyde Park, walking and laughing…”
“…activities I believe are acceptable for young ladies.”
“Does Markham know who you are?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t tell him.” Hawthorne swallowed the fear in his voice. “He won’t thank you for it.”
“Oh, I see!” She fisted her hands. “You think I seek to ingratiate myself with him in order to secure recognition or a fortune? I only want friendship, something you cannot comprehend.”
“I understand friendship,” he said. “But Roderick Markham is not your friend.”
Pain flashed in her eyes. “He was the only one who treated me as an equal at your house party, as opposed to a peasant invited in order to satisfy your need to bestow charity.”
“You bloody fool!” he cried. “You think I invited you out of charity?”
He raised his hand to take her arm, and she shrank back as if she thought he’d strike her. Instead, he stepped close and gently took her hand, tugging her against him.
His manhood stiffened, nudging insistently against her body. Her eyes darkened, but a golden light pulsed from within, radiating fire. She parted her lips and gave a low cry of want.
He claimed her mouth, lips devouring her, tongue demanding entrance. Their tongues tangled, and the shackles binding them pulled tighter, invisible chains which spiraled around their bodies as he held her close. He reached for her hips, and a groan of need rumbled in his chest as his hands claimed her soft flesh.
